A Liar's Liar, and a Relic
by ThexOnexWhoxWanders
Summary: He thought he knew everything about her, but she's hard to figure out. And he realizes, in their search for her missing brother, that maybe she's figuring him out instead. AU Deacon/F!SS
1. Chapter 1

One:

He watched her rise from the vault like a phoenix, the hot Wasteland air tugging at the dark, wet curls pushing into her eyes. Like one of those brief lights that streaks across the night sky, he couldn't take his eyes off her – newly awakened, she was both unsteady and perfectly balanced, frightened and tough as nails. A mess of contradictory things all shoved into one human being older than the War that broke the world into what it was.

He was safe where he stood, a hundred meters away. Perched atop a rusted-out truck, the sun blazing fiercely behind him. Through the scope of his rifle, he watched as she took in her surroundings, as the emotion played out on her face: the thawing fear, replaced by dread, soon to be overcome by a silent, dark sort of acceptance. The relic's eyes gazed out over the Wasteland slowly – was she seeing what _was_ , or what it used to be? – moving in a single arc to land, finally, at Sanctuary Hills, nestled below the hilltop in its abandoned valley.

For a moment, he thought something like heartbreak shone in her eyes, but it was soon gone. The pre-War relic sucked in one more breath, shoved her drying hair out of her face, and began the short descent towards the old suburb without another moment's hesitation.

* * *

Deacon watched her for weeks. He was there, from the moment she reunited with her Mr. Handy to the Deathclaw she slaughtered in Concord, to her arrival at Diamond City. Wearing different disguises, clothes, speaking in different accents and walking with an odd gait, here and there – but he was with her. It felt wrong to leave. Like leaving a kid to fend for itself out in the big brave new world.

Except, he'd come to find out she wasn't so helpless after all. Wasn't much of a surprise, when he thought about it. She was the sister of _him_. And that Deathclaw – honestly, seeing such a small woman gun that fucker down with just a shotgun? That tickled him pink. Really, it did. It also made him wary. From what he'd heard of the Father's sister, she was some lawyer, back in the old world. A paper-pushing, office-dwelling nobody.

But the woman he was seeing? She was… well, she was _something_ , all right.

So he knew about the pre-War relic before the rumors started circulating the Commonwealth. Rumors of a 200-something-year-old vault dweller raging through the 'Wealth, slaughtering entire encampments of raiders, gunning down supermutants, and solving everyone's goddamn problems from fucking generator issues to full-on blood feuds. Shit. Woman never took a break.

But what was more – what really fucking mattered - he knew _who_ she was. No one else did. From what he understood, she went by different names, crafting one every time she reached a new place. He couldn't help the fucking admiration he had felt at that – smart woman. Out of time, out of place – but still keeping people on their toes. Fucking insane. He just itched to talk to her, to hear what sort of name she'd give him, see that notorious fierceness in her eyes face-to-face. Not through the scope of his sniper or binoculars. Not through stolen glances across the room. Face to face. The way it mattered.

But Deacon was patient. It wasn't time, yet. Things needed to work in a certain order, fall in place. She had to come to him. So he would wait.

* * *

She worked her way through the Freedom Trail faster than he had anticipated. Deacon found himself waiting with Desdemona and Glory in the cleared-out passage of the crypt under the Old North Church, twiddling his fucking thumbs and counting the gunshots echoing through the cavern as she made her way towards them, a mere three weeks after he had finally left her. She'd proven herself to him, whether she knew it or not – she could handle herself. Last he saw her, she was clearing out the old Castle with Preston Garvey, acting as the new General of the Minutemen.

Now she was here, and part of him felt so _electrified_ at that prospect. He couldn't contain it, his sudden impatience, his anxiousness, all seeping out through his restless hands and shifting feet. Desdemona caught his eye more than once, clearly freaked the fuck out over his rare inability to remain carefully blank. He didn't care. The woman was _here_ and it was time.

They listened, barely carrying a single breath between the three of them, as the relic entered the password to the crypt. Clever, clever woman – got it right on the first try.

Stone ground against stone, shrieking while the secret doorway lurched backwards before it parted, revealing the form of a petite, average-height woman on the other side.

Thank god for the sunglasses. Deacon was sure he was looking at her like she was a fucking lollipop, a dead-giveaway that he already knew her.

Desdemona stepped up, shoulders taut, and jutted her chin out to the stranger. The relic. "We've heard you've been working your ass off to find us. Wanna tell me why?"

The relic looked momentarily confused. Dust smudged her cheek, likely acquired on the trek down through the catacombs. There was some blood, too, drying near her hairline. Deacon couldn't tell if it was hers or someone else's. Pursing her lips and simultaneously sizing Desdemona up with the eyes of a hawk, the relic finally said, "I was told to follow the Freedom Trail. I didn't realize…" she paused and squinted up at them, noting Glory's hostile stance, Deacon's casually crossed arms. Confusion tainted her tone. " _Who_ are you supposed to be?"

He could've laughed. Really. Des would've been pissed, so he kept it in check, but that was a hell of an entrance. And the look on Desdemona's face – that shit was priceless. He'd never seen her look so floored, had never made her face flush red from anger so quickly before. Not from lack of trying.

Silent, Desdemona glanced over at him, then Glory, hands twitching at her sides. Likely, she wanted to shoot this stranger who had found their new HQ, this unknown element who didn't even know who the fuck they were but was here, on their turf, anyway. She could try, but Deacon wouldn't let her. He was faster. Could have the gun that was holstered at her side out of reach within a second.

"Who told you to follow the Freedom Trail?" Desdemona finally asked, her tone halting and sharp. That one, she took shit from no one.

The relic read the tension in the room. Her hand trailed closer to her own weapon, but she remained calm. "Heard it from a couple of sources, really. First Preston Garvey. A Minuteman Lieutenant. Then a reporter in Diamond City. She said something about… the Institute? And you saving people. Synths. From them."

As if it were possible, Desdemona's chin jutted further in the air. "And if we do?"

The relic looked appeased at this. She knew what they were – that they did, in fact, save synths, fight the Institute, the whole she-bang, all nine yards of the whole fucking schtick. "Then I think you've found someone sympathetic to your cause."

* * *

Their first mission together went eerily smoothly. Really. Charmer struck the Gen 1s and 2s down like the cybernetic Angel of Death. Who moved like that? Fought like that? Someone who was trained. Though his respect for her grew during that first op, his wariness multiplied tenfold. Deacon had to be careful. This woman… she was sharp, strong, and perceptive. She was honestly a little bit like him.

That was dangerous.

"Shit, you really cleared this place out," he remarked quietly, nudging the shattered body of a Gen 1 with the toe of his boot, his mouth set in a firm line but his tone impressed.

He could feel her eyes on him from across the room. She'd stopped at a safe they'd come across right before they were ready to leave, head back to HQ. Said she was a decent lock-picker. Decent wasn't the word for it. She had it open and was pocketing its contents in under a minute.

"Guess I'm not too bad at the whole stealth thing, huh?" she asked with some triumph, referring to their earlier debate on whether a full-frontal attack or a trip through the escape tunnels would be better. Charmer was savage, brutal: she wanted the full-frontal attack. Said she could snatch up the prototype in a matter of minutes, if she had it her way. He persuaded her – all right, _challenged_ her – to try his way, mostly for his own amusement. She didn't disappoint.

Charmer was a master spy in the making. He just knew it. And that was… well, it wasn't what he had expected.

"Guess not," he allowed, shielding the suspicion swarming his thoughts from seeping into his tone. He watched her rise to her full height again, her pack weighed down with her new finds, and stride towards the doorway. Calm. Collected. Commanding.

No, she wasn't what he expected at all.

* * *

They were shacked up in an abandoned schoolhouse for the night, too far from HQ to make it there before sunup. They cleared the place together, darting in and out of rooms, finding some sort of synch with one another – something Deacon had never really had with anyone, not even Glory. Glory, who couldn't adapt to someone else's methods, who didn't _want_ to. But Charmer – she met him in the middle. Hell, closer to his side than in the middle, even. She was generous.

It nagged at him. Ate away at his thoughts as he watched her cook a mierulek stew over the fire he'd started not long ago. Her expression was blank, her eyes layered as if she were deep in thought, staring down into the churning pot with half a presence. He wondered what was playing through her mind, what had stolen her away from reality and dragged her back inside her head. He didn't know her outside of what he had observed for several weeks, but Charmer seemed like the thoughtful type. Like she sometimes needed the silence, to work through her mind.

When she spoke, it caught him off guard. He was too busy memorizing the details of her face, the exact color of her eyes – because the Institute had gotten better and better with their new synths, better every day – when she addressed him. He, such a fool, even flinched.

"You've always been a spy?"

Deacon tensed, but didn't show it. Shades still covering his eyes, he knew he looked composed. "Always been so nosy?" he threw back at her, but his tone was good-natured.

Charmer fixed him with a look that cut through his bullshit. "All right, another question. Why the Railroad?"

He watched her carefully, watched the slender hand that stirred the stew and the strong sinews of muscle that corded her arms, watched the fire dance across her collarbones and cast her face in flickering shades of red. He drew out a sigh, really dramatizing it, playing it up for proper effect, and let his shoulders fall a little. "Might come as a surprise to you, but I'm a synth." He met her gaze, canting his head up towards her, his eyes covered and hers bare. "So I guess that speaks for itself."

"A synth?" Charmer squinted at him, eyes trailing up and down, as if she could see through the flesh and the bones and find the truth – that elusive, ugly truth – he always dangled just out of reach. After a moment, he couldn't read her expression. She closed herself off, shut down, almost like a machine. She stared back at him, mouth relaxed, in that pursed and puckered state it seemed to perpetually fall back to. "I guess the Institute really did perfect… you know, _you_. You're no different than me."

While he genuinely liked that response, he made himself come off as personally touched. "That means a lot."

Charmer shrugged, gaze falling back to the stew. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good. You'll need to be, since my cooking isn't exactly worth any culinary awards."

They ate in silence, questions fading back behind any lines that weren't to be crossed on this evening, their eyes tired and bodies sore. Deacon kept her in the corner of his vision no matter what, like she was a wild animal that could lash out at any moment. He was normally so good at keeping his tension to himself, his worry, but he sensed she somehow knew. Every move she made was slow and purposeful, every look she gave him was shuttered.

His stomach squirmed. For the first time since he laid eyes on her, he wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into. This was Father's sister. A woman who had adapted to the cruelty of the Wasteland with unbelievable speed. A woman who he had seen single-handedly clear an outpost of raiders, the old HQ of synths… A woman sharp as the knife she kept sheathed over her combat vest, and confident as hell.

Maybe he shouldn't have made a game of this, after all.

* * *

Charmer was exhausted. He could see the fatigue lining the cant to her head, in the weight laying heavy on her shoulders. Her fingers danced around the trigger of her 10 mm, restless and absent-minded, her eyes scanning the abandoned village without their usual attentiveness.

The pair had made it back to HQ the night before, only to be sent out on another mission this morning. Desdemona had mentioned some settlement in the far east that was supposedly stashing third-gen synths, stealing them away from the Institute in order to act as synthetic body-shields for their sorry, raider asses. It was sickening. She wanted Charmer and Deacon to check the veracity of the rumor, to bring those synths in if it were true.

The settlement was at least a three-day's walk away. They'd only been at it for some twelve hours, and Charmer was already so tired. Honestly, he worried. She hadn't let Doc Carrington look at her the night before and left without a proper checkup this morning. Probably hadn't slept much either.

"We should call it a night," Deacon suggested, glancing about for a proper shelter for the evening. There was an old diner up a ways, near the coast; a boardwalk to their left, protruding over the water, hosting several shops; and a row of houses set behind that, edging towards what once had been a forest, some two centuries ago. None particularly stuck out to him as more strategically advantageous, but the diner, at least, looked clear.

Charmer frowned at him, the dark half-moons under her eyes becoming more pronounced. "If we stop now, we'll make bad time."

"Yeah, and if we keep going, you'll keel over from exhaustion," he pointed out, a little harsher than he intended. "You might be rather… petite… but you're overestimating my masculine abilities if you think I can haul your ass _and_ your gear somewhere safe, when that happens. And I know how you are about your gear."

The frown deepened. "Why don't you worry about yourself, and I'll worry about me." She continued on, leaving him behind, trekking forward despite her lack of speed and general weariness.

Goddamn, this was a stubborn woman. Fine. He'd just have to play his other card. "Listen," he told her, forcing her to a stop again. "I'm like twice your age, okay? Maybe _I_ need a rest for a bit?"

Ugh, he hated playing the 'twice your age' card. When had he gotten old enough for that, anyway? While it was half-true – she was technically older than any human still living in the Commonwealth – it didn't mean he needed any favors. Especially not when his body was still wired and ready to move. But she needed to stop. Before she got them killed.

Charmer looked at him over her shoulder from underneath thick eyelashes, likely judging the truth in his words. But something about the look she was giving him sent shockwaves through his belly. Fuck. When he first saw her, he'd thought she was pretty… but now –

Clenching his jaw, he looked away from her.

"Thought you were a synth," she finally said, face unreadable. She watched him carefully, lips falling into that puckered look.

Shit. He knew she probably doubted him when he said it, but honestly, he wanted to keep her guessing. That was the game. That was just what he did. "You think I'm not? What, synths can't get tired?"

Those eyes, green and bright, seemed to know more than she was letting on. She gave him another once over, gaze racking over his body slowly and carefully, worsening his thoughts from before. Then she nodded.

"Fine," Charmer said with a shrug. "Let's clear out that diner. Has the best vantage on all four sides."

He tried not to let that comment get under his skin. He'd been thinking the same thing, not long ago. Yeah… she was definitely a little bit like him. Or a lot.

* * *

"You pick every safe you come across?" Deacon asked, amused, as he watched Charmer curse as yet another bobby-pin snapped in the tumblers of the floor safe she was currently bent over. The view was priceless. Woman had an ass like a goddess, that much was true. Not that he wanted to know that. And now, he couldn't un-know it.

She spoke around the bobby-pin in her mouth. "Never know what you'll find." Then she cursed again, snapping another. "What the fuck. How hard can this be? It's got, like, four tumblers in there."

Deacon chuckled, resting his elbows on the countertop beside her. He watched her fingers work, edge carefully along the tumblers, slow and precise, thinking about how small they were, how soft and probably nice they would– _Click_. God, that saved him from a troublesome thought.

"Hell yes," she muttered, tucking her bobby pins away. He watched as she yanked open the safe door and hardly contained his laughter at the look that blossomed on her face.

Put simply, Charmer looked ready to kill. "Are you kidding me?" She rifled around in the safe, extracting a Nuka-Cola Cherry and some Blamco Mac 'n Cheese. "Some asshole really thought he needed to lock this shit up?"

Deacon laughed all the way over to the sleeping mat he'd rolled out, plopping down on it and rubbing at his eyes from under his sunglasses. God, he hadn't laughed so hard in such a long time. "Was it worth breaking five bobby pins?"

Joining him, Charmer tossed him another Nuka-Cola, which he caught effortlessly, and began to work on lighting a fire in the cooking pit in the corner. "Whatever," she muttered. "My five broken bobby-pins are gonna feed your ass some Mac n' Cheese tonight. You're _welcome_."

"You are a goddess," he said grandiosely, infusing a little too much graciousness in his tone to be sincere. "Honestly. The best cuisine out here in the Wasteland? Definitely two-hundred-year-old Mac 'n Cheese. I love the dust flavor. Honestly, thinking about it keeps me up at night. I _yearn_ for it."

"You're such an asshole."

"Yeah," Deacon agreed lightly. "But it's charming."

Charmer snorted. "Somehow, yeah."

Deacon's mouth clicked shut. He wasn't expecting her to affirm that. And yeah, she could just be messing with him… but that was the fucking problem. She was _messing_ with him.

Noting the abrupt end to their conversation, Charmer glanced at him after she got the fire going, eyes curious but still shuttered. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, keeping the stiffness from his tone. "Why?"

She shrugged, pouring the contents of the Mac 'n Cheese box into a clean pot. Settling it over the fire, she made her way towards him. Her own sleeping mat was adjacent to his. She laid down and gave him a curious look. "You usually like to keep the silences filled," she pointed out, not unkindly. "You've been quiet lately."

"What can I say?" Deacon splayed his arms out, like everything was a joke to him. "I'm a man of variety."

Charmer at least cracked a smile at that. Those green eyes probed him again, darker this time, searching his sunglass-laden face. "I know you aren't a synth."

He tried to hide the tension lining his muscles. Why was he so bothered? He knew she'd figure it out, eventually. He just didn't think it'd come so quickly. "I know you know," he managed to say somewhat cheerily, as if this had actually been the case. Inside, he squirmed.

Charmer smirked at him. As if she knew she was making him uncomfortable. "Normally I can't stand people who play games." She shrugged and stood again, returning to the cooking food, her back to him. "But you're all right."

* * *

"Something wrong, boss?" Deacon asked, taking in the curl to Charmer's lips, the squinted eyes perusing the desolate landscape laid before them. They were nearly at the settlement – probably an hour, two hours away tops – but needed to cross a long-dead field first to make it towards the bridge about half a mile away. Charmer had drawn up short as soon as the pair stood at its edge.

"What's that thing you always say about snipers?"

He smirked and glanced around. "That I'd be… there," he pointed towards an old military truck, some hundred meters away, "or there," then towards a house that lay at the edge of the field, "or maybe… there." A rocky outcropping, elevated. Yeah, those were good spots. He had an eye for that sort of thing.

Charmer shot him a frown. "Thanks, Deacon, that's really reassuring."

"I aim to please, m'lady."

Charmer _hmm_ ed. "I don't feel spectacular about walking out in the open so much." She turned those critical eyes on him. "And I imagine you don't either."

He grinned at her. "What, don't want to play a game of duck and cover? Honestly, it's fun. Kinda like Russian roulette. We can see who gets shot first. Last man standing wins… a drink at the Third Rail."

Clearly she didn't know what the Third Rail was, if the confusion that sparkled in her eyes was any indication. "How 'bout I just owe you one, anyway? We can forgo one of us dealing with all that messy bodily harm."

He pretended to pout. "Now that's less fun."

Rolling her eyes, Charmer glanced back at the proverbial mine field ahead of them. "Let's go around. We'll lose a couple hours, but better that than you having to drag my sniped ass somewhere for the night."

"What makes you think you'd be the one to get shot?"

A tiny smile curled on her lips. Charmer's eyes, surprisingly, shone with mirth. "'Cause I look a hell of a lot scarier than you do." Then she turned about and began walking the field's perimeter, towards an outcropping of houses to the south, leaving him to catch up.

He jogged after her a bit, frowning when he felt pain in his knees. Ugh. All that aging crap was really getting to him. Once they were walking side-by-side again – Charmer's eyes on the field and the surrounding houses, his eyes sliding over to her every now and again – he cleared his throat.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, infusing his tone with as much uncertainty as possible. It wasn't that hard. He _was_ fairly uncertain about it.

Charmer took her eyes off the foreboding landscape long enough to glance at him curiously. "Yeah?"

"Where'd you learn to fight?" The twitch in her hand at his question didn't go unnoticed. Neither did her clenched jaw or her purposefully unreadable expression. He pushed on anyway, like he hadn't detected anything. Like he was just making conversation. "You're damn good with a gun. But your hand-to-hand… I don't think I've ever seen anyone fight the way you do."

She wasn't meeting his gaze, and he wanted to scoff at her. For usually being so good at hiding her emotions, her play, she was doing a shit job right now. Some paranoia in the back of his mind wondered if she was doing that on purpose, just as he made himself sound shy about asking her. But why? Lying was his thing. Charmer was always just… purposefully vague.

"Does it matter?" she finally asked, a weak way to try to drop the subject. But there was something present in her that wasn't there moments before. Something that looked a lot like fear and sadness.

Guilt stabbed at his heart, cold and unwanted. His personal mission was to get to know Charmer as best as he could, and that included how the hell she could tear through a mob of raiders and supermutants like they were nothing. But clearly the topic pained her in some way. Dug up old memories she wanted to keep buried.

"Guess not," he said, toying with the sniper resting on his shoulder.

Several minutes passed in tense silence. They were nearly to the outcropping of houses, which Charmer would likely insist on clearing just to be on the safe side, when the woman beside him spoke again.

"I was military," she said, staring at her boots, at the windows of the houses – anywhere but at him. "Before the… bombs."

The frown on her lips tugged at his heartstrings, or what was left of them. Honestly, he'd thought they'd died out of him a long time ago. He cleared his throat again. "We don't have to talk about it." And he meant it. He didn't want to push her back into memories that hurt. As stupid as that was.

"I know," Charmer said, clearly trying to keep her tone light. "It just… seems like someone should know. Someone living, anyway."

That broke him. Eyeing her from his peripherals, where she wasn't cast in shades of black and blue from his sunglasses, Deacon felt like he finally understood something about Charmer other than what he already knew: that she was Father's sister, a former lawyer, a 200 something relic who probably looked around at the remnants of Boston and saw two images – what was and what had been. He finally understood that she was just human, too. Like him. And she was hiding a lot more under that tough skin of hers than she let on.

Charmer… she was damaged.

They had more in common than he realized.

* * *

The pair crouched behind the crumbling wall of an old building, a hundred feet away from the raider settlement below them. Charmer had her sniper out, marking targets and counting heads, using what he was beginning to identity as her 'military' tone. They were sorely outnumbered, as they had expected, but she didn't seem terribly bothered at that prospect. In fact, she seemed a little excited.

These poor bastards didn't know what was about to hit 'em. If they weren't walking pieces of shit, using synths as their own personal body shields, he might've actually felt bad for them. Might've.

"So, we gonna talk about how exactly we're supposed to kill them, if they use the people we're trying to save as human shields?" he asked a bit offhandedly, though the thought made him nervous. There were twenty raiders – enough that, if they took a few out, the rest would be alerted and would run for the synths. That was trouble.

Charmer clucked her tongue silently, deep in thought. "We could wait until dark. Fix those suppressors on our rifles, take them out a few at a time. Start with the guards, then work our way inside." She smirked at him, eyes lighter than usual. "You like the sneaky way, don't you?"

"I do," he allowed. "You're a woman after my own heart."

That statement hit him hard – _fuck_ , he shouldn't have said that. In the corner of his eye, Charmer gave him a strange look. A few seconds beat away in silence, before Charmer – whatever gods there may be, bless her – tried to lighten the air. "You have a heart?" the smirk only widened. "Honestly, who would've thought?"

He nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Didn't need things getting weird between them – especially because of him. Deacon wasn't an emotional kind of guy. At least, that's what he told himself. God, he needed a drink. Or five.

Returning her focus to the raider encampment, Charmer nodded her head, as if reaffirming something to herself. "So we'll wait until dark. Let's head back to that old trailer we passed, get some rest. We move at sundown."

* * *

Sundown, unfortunately, was four hours away. They had four hours to kill, stuck in each other's presence, silent and shivering cold. Now that they weren't moving, the fading bite of winter sunk into their bones, chilling them just enough to be uncomfortable, just enough that Charmer had slid closer to him in the trailer and rested her shoulder against his.

He couldn't stop thinking about it. Like it was burning him, he could feel her heat. Goddamn. He needed to get a grip on himself. Crushing on the new recruit – especially considering that new recruit was Father's _sister_ – was a beyond stupid idea.

Right?

He felt her shiver again, her skin trembling next to his, her teeth quietly clacking together. Of course, she was colder than him – smaller, wearing less layers. Deacon sighed. He couldn't just be an asshole and let her spend the next four hours this way. Well, he could… but Deacon didn't much like being an asshole.

"You want my jacket?" he asked, breaking the silence that had descended on them some forty minutes ago.

Charmer gave him a disparaged look. "No," she said firmly, not unkind. "I was stationed in Anchorage. I'm used to the cold."

"Doesn't look like that to me," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. The stubbornness of this woman! God, it would get her killed some day. Maybe both of them.

"I'm fine," she said, looking back outside, her eyelids growing heavy. She must be exhausted. Hadn't slept much the past three days. Used the excuse that she was taking watch for them, but they'd cleared all the neighborhoods they'd stayed in. Something else was keeping her up.

Forgoing the little voice in his head that occasionally warned him not to do stupid things, Deacon slowly – carefully – wrapped an arm over her shoulder. Charmer's head immediately snapped towards him, eyes wide, full lips parted.

"Relax," he said, putting his hands up to show her he meant no harm. "Figured you could use some sleep. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the closest thing to a pillow you're gonna get."

Her sharp gaze softened and she bit her lip, clearly debating the value of sleeping versus staying alert and awake. "You'll have nothing to do," she finally said, the lamest excuse he'd ever heard. Nothing to do? _Doll, I'd have a beautiful woman resting in my arms_. What _else_ could he want to do?

He was so fucked.

Deacon swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "I'm _built_ for doing nothing. Really. Half of espionage – creeping around, gathering intel. The other half? Doing absolutely nothing. For days on end, sometimes. One time, I did literally nothing for an entire week. A week! I really think my brain is better suited to be a vegetable."

Charmer cracked a smile at him, her eyes bespeaking her appreciation for his lame attempt to put her at ease. Then she nodded, mind made up. Before he could pull her to his chest, like he originally planned on doing, Charmer scooted down a bit and sidled up to him. Her heat was immediate – he couldn't ignore it, the press of her against him. It was consuming, and it was such a bad idea – this whole thing.

She pressed her cheek into his chest, resting her hand beside it, on him. The other wrapped around his waist and held him close. She smelled like gunpowder, like sharp metal, and he found himself relaxing into her touch after a few moments. He placed a hand on her hip, gentle and careful not to startle her, and watched as she fell asleep.

The words _you can't trust anyone, you can't trust anyone, youcan'ttrustanyone_ spun round and round through his head.

* * *

Charmer murmured in her sleep. It wouldn't have been all that startling, if it had all been in English. But it wasn't. He heard a few other languages – Chinese the most frequent, something Slavic and deep next – and stared down at her in wonder. He counted four. Four other languages. Hell, Deacon could barely speak one. When did someone have the time to learn four different languages?

Her murmurs sometimes grew panicked, turning into cries briefly before subsiding again. He knew Charmer was plagued with nightmares – had been woken up by a few, since they started traveling together. But he'd only ever seen her at the cusp of them, since she always woke up afterwards and grew quiet once more. This… This was different. There was pain and heartbreak on her face. Fear.

No matter how good of a liar someone was, this was when they were most vulnerable. This fear was real.

He debated the merits of waking her up for an hour straight, talking himself into it then out of it again. Finally, she'd pressed herself more fully against him – God, he could feel her breasts – and quieted down. The worst of it passed, and the subsequent three hours went substantially better than the first.

Every shift she made, every time she nuzzled his chest with her cheek, affected him deeply. His body was on fire, alight, reacting to every little movement. Deacon simultaneously hated it and loved it. It had been so long, since…

Ugh. He didn't want to think of Barbara. Tried his best to never think about her. And now he was. Barbara… and Charmer.

Since when had he lost his carefully crafted control?

You can't trust anyone. _Anyone_.

Suddenly, she stiffened in his arms. Awake. He watched as she peeled her eyes open immediately, first checking their surroundings, then looking up at him. She seemed smaller than usual. Fragile.

"Deacon?"

"Yeah, do - boss?" he said, correcting himself before he called her what he did in his head. He had a feeling she wouldn't take kindly to being called 'doll'.

"The sun's down," she noted quietly, nodding her head towards the darkened sky.

Shit. He hadn't even noticed. That's how fucked he was. "Figured you could use the sleep," he finally said. "'Sides, we have the whole night to get this done, right? That's like all the time in the world."

Charmer accepted his lame excuse, but he couldn't tell if she bought it or not. She pulled herself from his body – he felt the absence of her body heat as if someone had blasted him with the very heart of winter – and stretched. Her feline body curved deliciously – was she doing this on purpose? – and he watched with rapt attention.

Deacon needed a good, hard slap to the face. Yeah. That's what he needed. He was doing a shit job of remaining unaffected. Normally he was the first person to follow his own advice.

Charmer yawned and ran a hand through her hair, settling down the unruly locks. Then she stood, not wasting another moment. Weapon in hand, others slung across her back, she extended a hand down towards him. "Ready?"

He stared at her hand, so small but somehow, not delicate. His engulfed hers when he accepted it.

You can't trust anyone.

"Ready as ever, boss."

* * *

He watched Charmer duck behind some cover, just barely dodging the bullets from the last raider they needed to kill. The man was a fucking beast – taller than Deacon by at least a foot, wider by two. All muscle. The minigun in his hands looked miniscule compared to the rest of him. Deacon was starting to doubt that they'd be able to take him down without causing any injury to the synths, who were also hiding from the onslaught of bullets.

He ushered as many as he could to safety, told them to wait for him, but there were a few stragglers left inside the encampment. Charmer was at one's side, whispering reassurances to it, from what he could tell. Then she darted up, rifle hugged close to her shoulder, and fired off a few rounds, nicking the raider in the arm.

The raider cried out in anger. He charged towards Charmer and the synth, forcing Deacon's belly to drop to his toes. _Fuck_. He fired on the raider himself, but it was useless. All his bullets weren't piercing the man's armor.

Looked like he needed to get up close and personal. The thought didn't sit well with him, but he didn't really have time to think it through. He just moved. The thought of Charmer dying… It galvanized him.

You can't trust anyone, but you can't let them die, either.

"Hey asshole!" he shouted, charging towards the raider, firing bullets with every step.

Well, that got the beast's attention. The raider, completely forgetting Charmer, turned to face Deacon. There was a sick, twisted smile on the man's face, like he knew Deacon was walking right into his own death. _Fuck_.

Before the raider could raise his minigun, a hand shot out, gripping the raider's jaw, shoving his head up. Deacon watched as Zora ran a hacksaw through the man's neck – _fuck_ , he would never forget that sight – spilling his blood down onto his armor, making the man choke on it.

The raider dropped to his knees, gasping for air, touching his neck blindly, before he faceplanted in the dirt. Charmer stood behind him, eyes wild and armor caked in thick, hot blood.

She stared at Deacon, immobile, face flushed from the fight. "The hell were you trying to do?"

The sheepish look he gave her wasn't fake. "Uh. Save you?"

Charmer just shook her head, like she couldn't believe his stupidity. "Next time, maybe try for some more self-preservation, yeah? The running into battle kinda shit is my thing."

* * *

It took three more days to transport all the synths – 12, in total – to Ticonderoga. High Rise was taken aback by the sheer number of them, by the haunted looks in their eyes, but he greeted each warmly and reassuringly. Deacon felt shitty thinking it, but he was glad to have them off his hands. Traveling with 12 synths? Out in the Commonwealth? It had been a nightmare. They couldn't have painted a brighter target on their backs if they tried.

He watched as Charmer gave them some parting words, some encouragement and reassurance. The smile she gave the newly freed synths was blinding – white, perfect rows of teeth, flashing brightly at her audience. He envied them, if only for a second. She hadn't ever smiled at him the same.

When she was finished, she approached him, a small smile still tugging at her lips.

"How are they?" he asked, nodding at the synths being led off to different rooms.

Charmer's smile faded, if only a little. "They're scared. But I think they'll be okay. They seem… hopeful."

"That's good."

"It is," she agreed. Then she placed a hand on his shoulder and grinned up at him – not the way she had at the synths, but tiredly. "I owe you a drink, don't I?"

He grinned back. "That you do."

* * *

Goodneighbor had been a surprise, to say the least, for Charmer. Upon walking in, she witnessed the mayor stick a knife in someone's gut for trying to sell her protection. Not the warmest of welcomes, but hey. To each his own.

Deacon could tell she was both fascinated by Goodneighbor and disturbed. Couldn't much blame her for that either, considering the sheer number of drugs laying around, the prostitution and crime. It was definitely a unique gem of the Commonwealth – not the cleanest, not the nicest, but the most interesting.

By the light in her eye, she fucking loved the Third Rail. The hypnotic voice of Magnolia, the dim lights and strange people – Charmer seemed to be in her natural environment. He could picture it – her all dolled up before the war, going out to some late-night jazz club, drinking in the sights.

She bought him a drink, as promised, and then two more. Deacon hadn't indulged in a long time – it was hard to really let loose in the Commonwealth, especially when working for the Railroad – but it was easier when he knew someone had his back. He laughed at all Charmer's poorly made jokes, watched her swing around the dancefloor hypnotically, charm the crowd around her. That was Charmer. A sight to see, and everyone wanted a ticket.

When Hancock approached and asked her for a dance, Deacon felt… wrong. The band changed the tune to a slow one, seemingly at the request of the Mayor himself, if his salacious grin was any indication. It was masochistic, but Deacon watched their every move. The way Hancock rested his hands on Charmer's hips, the way he pulled her up against his chest, the way they laughed. The man was fucking forward as hell – did he know nothing about subtlety? He twirled Charmer and caught her again, somehow bringing her closer than before.

He hadn't realized he was gripping his drink so hard until Magnolia approached him. "Don't think I've ever seen you so… off your game before," she noted in her husky tone, nodding at Charlie for a drink.

Deacon sucked in a breath and pulled his gaze away from Charmer and the Mayor. He flashed Magnolia an easy smile. "Who, me? Nah. I'm good."

The singer raised a perfect brow. "If you were talking to anyone else, maybe they'd believe you." She turned, smirking at the pair dancing to the band she had left playing. "I don't think I've ever heard Hancock laugh so much. That girl of yours – she's something."

 _That girl of yours_. He swallowed. "She's not mine."

Magnolia fixed him with another knowing look, accepting her water from Charlie. "Not if you let her get away from you, that's for sure." She smiled again, softer than before, and approached the stage. Grabbing the mic, she looked right at Deacon as she said in her low, seductive tone, "And for our beautiful pair on the dancefloor tonight… We'll take things a little slower."

He should've gotten up, left. Right then and there. But maybe this would help – seeing her with someone else. Maybe he could finally get her out of his head. It was ridiculous that she was even stuck there to begin with. You can't trust anyone, and you definitely can't fall in love.

* * *

He should have gone to the hotel when he had the chance. Watching Charmer leave the bar on Hancock's arm… that didn't make things better for him. It was worse. Way worse. He nearly broke his glass, he was so tense.

Downing his drink, he stood up, tipsy and unhappy. He looked around and considered his options. Leaving Charmer with Hancock didn't seem right. He could follow them, make sure the ghoul treated her well… but no. That was fucked up in its own way. And he likely wouldn't survive her wrath if she ever figured it out.

Instead, he unsteadily made his way over to the hotel Redford, dropped some caps on the counter for a room, and climbed up the rickety staircase. His buzz was wearing off, leaving him feeling hollow. Angry. Deacon didn't do angry very well. Always made some stupid, rash decisions, always put himself in a worse situation.

He couldn't do that tonight. Tonight, he wouldn't leave this room. Just to be on the safe side.

Yanking his boots off and tossing his wig on the bed, Deacon reclined on the mattress. The ceiling, which had probably been white once, was cracked and yellowing.

An hour passed with him staring at the cracks above him. He hadn't necessarily been lying when he told Charmer he could do absolutely nothing. It had been a skill he picked up early on, when doing recon. There was a whole lotta sitting around, a whole lotta waiting. He'd gotten good at it.

It was two in the morning when Charmer stumbled into the room. Deacon sat up, alert, when he heard the sound of a key jamb into place, the rustling of the doorknob. He was, at once, relieved and angry to see her. But his anger was completely unjustified, so he shoved it away to deal with later.

He crossed the room quickly when he watched Charmer, unbalanced, try to walk inside. How she even made it up three flights of stairs in her state was beyond him. Hancock hadn't even had the decency to walk her back? Fucking cocksucker.

Deacon put a hand around her waist, but she tensed away from him. "It's me," he said, pulling her into the room and shutting the door behind her. As soon as she realized who he was, she sank into him, clutching his shoulders for support.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" Deacon asked, his tone coming out harsher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Come on, you need to sit." Leading her to the bed across from his, he forced her to sit. He grabbed some snacks and purified water from his bag to hand off to her.

When she accepted them, she giggled. But it wasn't the giggle of a drunk person.

Deacon froze. He glared down at the top of her pretty head, jaw clenched. "Are you high right now?"

Another giggle. Fuck, he was going to _kill_ Hancock. Fucking kill him. Charmer had confided in him not long ago that she'd never done drugs before. Ever. And now one night with the Mayor of Goodneighbor? He grabbed his wig, adjusted it on his head, and stalked to the door.

Charmer stopped giggling, finally sensing he was upset. She stood, swaying on her feet. "'Where're you goin'?" she slurred, half out of her mind.

Deacon turned back and made her sit again. "I'm going to fucking kill Hancock for giving you drugs." He made to leave again, but Charmer grabbed his arm.

"It's not his fault," she said, carefully spacing out her words in an effort to sound soberer. "He didn't make me do anything."

"And yet you're high." The flatness of Deacon's tone seemed to wake her up a bit. She frowned up at him like a scolded child.

"I… he offered, and I'd never done it before," she said, sounding small. "He didn't make me. I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry_. God, she sounded so… young. And she was. Younger than him by double, not counting the years she'd been on ice. Deacon swiped his wig off his head and threw it on his mattress, seething. He was absolutely pissed, but he couldn't ascertain whether he was pissed at her or Hancock more.

Still holding on to his arm, Charmer tugged on it, asking without words for him to sit. He did, stiffly. Every bone in his body wanted to charge out of the room and give Hancock a piece of his mind and a warning to stay the fuck away from Charmer.

"I'm sorry," Charmer said again, her hand moving from his forearm to his palm. She twirled her fingers against his rough skin, a deep frown marring her lips. "It won't happen again. Promise."

 _So young_ , he couldn't stop thinking. She was so young.

"You'd better not," he said, fixing her a look that bespoke his seriousness. "Or I'll kill him. I mean it."

"I believe you." She sounded soberer by the second. Retracting her hand from his, she laid down on her bed. "And I keep my promises."

He stood. There needed to be distance between them, something to separate him from his emotions. He flopped back down onto his bed and rolled onto his side. Charmer's eyes were already closed.

Deacon had never made a promise he kept. Why should she?

* * *

"I feel… like shit," Charmer declared emphatically, pulling the collar of her shirt up to cover her eyes. "My brain has shriveled up inside my head. I think it's dying."

Deacon stared at her, mouth a flat line, completely unamused. Honestly, he'd been in a pissy mood all night. Thoughts of her time with Hancock, about what kind of drug he might've handed her or what else they'd gotten up to, kept him from sleeping. "That's what happens when you do drugs," he said pointedly. "What, you thought you'd wake up and it'd be all rainbows and unicorns?"

Uncovering one eye, Charmer glared at him. "Your righteousness is unbearable."

"Good. It should be. Maybe I can be unbearable enough to keep you from doing that shit again."

Charmer let out a long sigh. "I already promised I wouldn't. You can stop throwing it in my face."

He glanced away from her, towards the window. Weak sunlight filtered in, dancing on the worn carpet beneath his boots. In her condition, they likely weren't traveling anywhere today. Adjusting the wig on his head, Deacon sighed. "I'm gonna rent the room for another night. You need rest."

"Take my caps," Charmer offered. "And maybe… bring some food?"

He tried hard not to give her another glare. "Sure thing, boss."

Stepping out of the room, he closed the door softly behind him, mindful of Charmer's raging headache. He paused in the hallway a moment and just stared down at his boots. He was so fucked. _They_ were fucked. How that woman could even stand the ghoul's presence, let alone _do drugs_ with him… that was well fucking beyond Deacon's ability to comprehend.

The worst part of it all? He couldn't even lie to himself about it. He knew he was jealous. There wasn't another emotion he could cling to, claim to feel instead of that nasty green monster raging inside of him. No, he was just jealous. Plain and simple.

He reached the lobby and made small talk with the hotel clerk, Clara, for a moment. The old woman was decent. Didn't approve of Fred's drug abuse, didn't deal with Maloney's shit. He liked her. After handing over some more caps for the room again, Deacon ducked out of the hotel in search of food.

He went to Daisy first. Figured Charmer could use a noodle cup, some sugar bombs, maybe a Nuka-Cola. After purchasing what he needed, he made to turn around and head back to the hotel. Instead, he nearly ran into the very man he wanted to murder.

"Deacon!" Hancock greeted amiably, a sharp grin on the ghoul's coarse face. "I heard you were in town. Tell me, how's our little amateur druggie doing this morning?"

Deacon could only stare at the Mayor for several moments, his breath coming in short and quick. The box of sugar bombs crunched under the pressure of his grip. Hancock seemed to sense something was off, despite not being able to see Deacon's eyes. The ghoul gave him a sideways look. The grin that had been on his chapped, rough lips not a moment ago disappeared.

"There a problem?" Hancock asked, tone growing wary. He glanced at Daisy, who stood tense behind Deacon, before turning his near-black eyes back to the man in question. "Listen, if this is about Nora – "

 _Nora_. That was her name. She'd told Hancock her name. It wasn't an alias – Deacon knew from the research he'd done on her. Nora was her real name and she graced it to the likes of the druggie Mayor of Goodneighbor.

In one swift motion, Deacon stiffly set his purchases on Daisy's counter, and swung around to punch Hancock in the face. The cartilage of the ghoul's nose was long gone, leaving Deacon's fist to bash into bone. He could feel his knuckles tear open, but he didn't care. Hancock had fallen on his ass and that was all that mattered.

"Holy hell, kid," Hancock grunted, holding a hand up to his face. "The fuck was that for?"

A crowd had gathered around them – the Neighborhood watch. The air was electric, and Deacon knew multiple guns were pointed at him right now. But he just didn't care.

Hancock shoved to his feet. Much to Deacon's disappointment, he didn't seem any worse for wear. The ghoul gestured for his men to stand down, and every gun that had been pointed at Deacon now pointed at the ground. Black eyes regarded the Railroad agent sharply.

Suddenly, Deacon felt red-hot. A blush creeped up his neck, both angry and embarrassed. He'd lost control. He'd lost control so bad he just punched the fucking Mayor of Goodneighbor. A criminal in a town of criminals. The stupidest thing he'd ever done, for sure.

But he couldn't just walk away. Not when all eyes were on him, not when he had to stay in this place overnight again. Fuck.

He stepped up to Hancock, chest to chest. Quietly, so no one else could overhear them, he growled, "She doesn't do drugs with you. Ever again. Got it?"

Hancock's eyebrows – or what would have been his eyebrows – shot up. He was simultaneously impressed and irritated. "Fine, kid." It seemed like he'd leave it at that, but just when Deacon was turning to grab what he'd bought for Charmer, Hancock spoke again. "But that's between you and her. She makes her own decisions."

Deacon plucked his purchases off the counter and shouldered past the ghoul, heading back towards the Redford. Fuck. He'd lost control. He was _losing_ control.

He needed to get a grip, and fast.

* * *

"Your hand's bleeding," Charmer pointed out when he returned to their hotel room. She lay on her side on the bed, looking exhausted and a little sick, but her green eyes were focused on him. "Something happen?"

Shit. Deacon glanced down at his fist – sure enough, the knuckles were torn wide open and blood ran down his wrist like a glove. Placing the food on the nightstand beside her, Deacon said nothing. He grabbed his pack from under the bed and dug around for a stimpack.

Charmer's bed creaked behind him. He stiffened. She had stood, her legs a little shaky but otherwise holding her up just fine, and came to hover beside him. The blood on his hand was getting all over his pack, keeping him from getting a good hold on anything.

Charmer gently took the bag from him while he staunchly avoided making eye contact with her. A small, soft hand came up to rest on his shoulder. "Sit down," she ordered quietly.

He hesitated a moment, but ultimately complied. It was too much – all of this. Deacon desperately wanted to run away, just leave the room and never come back. He wasn't built for this. Not anymore. That much was proven by his inability to properly deal with his emotions. He couldn't pine after another Railroad agent. And he sure as hell couldn't go around knocking people on their asses every time they got close to said Railroad agent.

Fuck.

Though she wasn't in prime condition herself, Charmer crouched down in front of him and took his hand in hers. He yanked it away from her immediately, as if she'd stung him, but instantly regretted it. Her green eyes flashed with hurt. That pucker to her lips was replaced with a frown. This was all… wrong.

 _Can'ttrustanyonecan'ttrustanyone…_

"Deacon," she said, and she sounded so much gentler than normal. Oddly calm and composed, careful – like she was talking to a wild animal. Like he was on the ledge of something and about to jump off. "Are you okay?"

He sucked in a quick breath. "I'm fine, boss." His voice came out hoarse and scratchy. His gaze dropped down to his lap again, where he cradled his bleeding hand. "You know me," he continued, trying for a cheerier tone. "Clumsier than a feral on a tightrope."

Charmer pressed her lips together so tightly, they became white. "I do know you. You're not clumsy at all, but you are a liar. Wanna try telling me something closer to the truth?"

He looked away, but managed a thin smile. "Got in a fight with a supermutant. Fist fight. Wasn't my wisest idea, but the asshole had it coming. Literally stole candy from a baby – can you believe it?" There – that was more like him. That sounded better.

Charmer grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "See, part of that seems true. This is definitely from clocking someone in the face. But it wasn't a supermutant, was it?"

"You caught me," he said, trying hard not to lean into her touch. "It was a deathclaw. Bastard took me by surprise. I read in an old book that you punch a shark in the nose to stun it – guess it works on everything, huh?"

For once, Charmer was not patient with him. She growled and uncurled from her crouch, standing to her full height. She raked a hand through her hair and gazed sightlessly out the window, breathing in and out slowly, controlled. Her eyes closed for a moment, and he almost felt bad for lying to her, but then she blinked them open and seemed… calm.

Turning to him again, Charmer grabbed his hand, grip tight so he couldn't shift away but light enough not to hurt him. "Fine," she said, tone cool and detached. "At least let me bandage this up. You can stimpack yourself, but you'll need something to cover it from an infection while it stitches itself back up."

"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." He pretended he didn't notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she bit her lip in order to maintain her air of coolness. He pretended he wasn't angry anymore, or tired, or thinking about her hands on his body.

Deacon needed to pretend a lot of things.


	2. Chapter 2

Two:

They were leaving Goodneighbor this morning, but Deacon needed to do something first. Something he _really_ didn't want to do. He needed to suck up his pride – which was such a fucking beast, in all reality – take the walk of shame over to the State House and apologize to that low-life ghoul who pumped Charmer full of enough drugs to lay her on her ass for a full day.

First, he needed to fix his attitude about the whole ordeal. Charmer wasn't his. She was his partner, yeah, but that was where the line ended. He had no claim over her, no justifiable reason to be pissed at her personal choices whatever they may be. Sure, what Hancock did was a little fucked up – opening the gate for someone like Charmer to become a drug addict – but would she _really_ get addicted to that shit?

Deacon didn't know. And he wasn't supposed to make it his problem. He wasn't.

When he had finally collected himself on the matter, he muttered some lame excuse to Charmer about needing to get some supplies and left the Redford, intent to get the whole ordeal over with.

Inside the State House, he found Hancock on the second floor, his second-in-command hovering at his elbow. Fahrenheit. Deacon had never liked the woman. Sure, Charmer was a little rough around the edges, but Fahrenheit? A man could get all sorts of fucked up from that woman.

Hancock's black eyes zeroed in on Deacon immediately, surprise and calculation swarming within them. He barked at Fahrenheit to leave the room and snapped at her again when she didn't close the doors.

Deacon waited, patient as ever. He wasn't in a rush to further make an ass of himself.

"Sit down," Hancock offered, gesturing towards a patchy looking couch. Deacon did as instructed, his eyes meeting the ghoul's across from him. "How's your hand?" Hancock asked conversationally. "Me – I've got a nasty bruise you can't even see. I can sure as hell feel it, though."

Deacon flashed a repentant smile. "Hasn't messed with your dashing looks any, I see. Lucky bastard. You made of steel?"

A smirk curled on Hancock's lips. "Something like that. And hey – unspoken apology accepted. I get it. I was walking all over another man's territory."

Behind his sunglasses, Deacon hid a cringe. In a light tone, he corrected the man. "Nah, not mine. Just need her in top shape, y'know? We have some things we need to look after."

The skepticism on Hancock's face was not hidden. "Sure thing. I get it." His gaze briefly flickered down to a jet inhaler laying on the coffee table between them. "You and me, Deacon, we've known each other a long time. We're good. No worries."

Deacon refrained from narrowing his eyes. Hancock was being _too_ polite about this. Especially considering the man was known for killing someone for less. "Yeah? Sure about that?"

"I'm sure." The ghoul smiled. "Long as you remember you owe me one, yeah?"

There it was. The strings attached. That was the ghoul he knew, the conniving, greedy bastard. Honestly, he couldn't even find it in himself to mind. Hancock wanted a favor from him someday? Fine.

"Sounds like a deal," Deacon said, his irreverent tone coming back to him easily. That was more like it. That was _him_.

"Good," Hancock said. "Now get out of my city before I change my mind. That girl of yours – she was damn good company." He winked salaciously, making Deacon's belly squirm, but before thoughts of Hancock and Charmer could bombard him and throw him off balance again, he shoved it away.

* * *

"Normally I wouldn't ask someone to lie for me," Charmer said, breaking the silence as the pair headed back to HQ, "but I have a feeling you wouldn't mind."

Deacon grinned. "Ooh, what are we lying about?" He rubbed his hands together like an excited kid. "Don't tell me – your mysterious past? We could say you're a time traveler, come to warn us about the future. A future filled with slimy, miniature unicorns, risen from Hell, thirsting for human blood." He paused. "Nah, you're right, too dramatic. How 'bout this – you're an angel. A literal angel. Angel of Death and all that jazz. And we tell Des you have a sacred mission to liberate all radroaches from eternal damnation from here to the west coast. I think she'd buy it, if you tried hard enough."

Charmer threw him a half-amused smirk, but her eyes weren't in it. "Uh, I was just gonna suggest we don't tell Des about the other night." Her tone grew quieter, as if she didn't want to even broach the topic with him for fear of what he might say, but Deacon ignored the nausea roiling in his stomach and nodded, cheerful as ever.

"Sure thing, boss," he shrugged. "I don't even know whatcha mean. You talking about those raiders who set on us the other night, kept us on the road a bit longer? 'Course," he answered his own question. "That's whatcha mean."

Charmer gave him an appreciative smile, but something about it was shy. She'd grown shy around him now, and it was hard to ignore. He'd bet his right arm that it was not only because he'd seen her do something she swore she wouldn't do – drugs – but also because he hadn't fessed up to why his hand was still bandaged this afternoon. He had outright lied to her, hadn't even offered up a good lie, and it bothered her.

Or maybe she knew. Maybe she'd seen Hancock before they'd left, too, and she knew what had happened.

Honestly, he wasn't sure which was worse.

* * *

The next day, he woke up in HQ and Charmer was gone. Drummer Boy told him that she took off in the middle of the night, rushed but quiet. Something about a call from the Minutemen, a problem in a settlement. Preston Garvey himself had sent out a call for her over the Minutemen's own radio, beseeching the help of their grand and noble General. The fucking boy scout, righteous asshole.

He hung around HQ for the day, a black cloud hovering over him, making his comments sharp and his silences tense. Glory approached him twice, first asking what he'd shoved up his ass to make him so moody, then to see if he wanted to go on a supply run with her. He had suggested Drummer Boy go instead – give the pair some time alone. Drummer Boy had had a crush on Glory since he'd joined up with the Railroad. It was only fair.

As if playing matchmaker wasn't disgusting enough, Deacon found himself brooding. He refused to consider the source of his discontent – she was gone for now, and that was a blessing in some way because now he could go back to normal. He needed to be Deacon, top Railroad agent, best liar in the Commonwealth. Deacon, the fraud. Deacon, the guarded.

He _was_ a fraud. He was guarded. But honestly, he needed that. Without it… he became what Charmer brought out of him. Soft. Vulnerable.

Deacon couldn't afford the luxury of being soft. Not again. Not when he'd already failed so many people.

Two more days passed and there was still no word from Charmer. Deacon was almost relieved, except he at least dimly recognized that he was also worried. So relief wasn't really the word. Maybe… content? No. Worried, but not _too_ worried. Not yet. Three days wasn't a long time. He just _was_. And if it seemed like he was waiting around for her… well, that was only because he had some paperwork that was long overdue. Des loved her paperwork.

On the fifth day of her absence, Des gave him an assignment. He had accepted it without issue – Deacon was accustomed to working alone over the years, so going back to being a one-man show wouldn't be that hard. Hell, it'd be refreshing.

Sometimes Deacon wasn't sure where the lies ended and the truth began, or vice versa.

* * *

As it turned out, Des sent Deacon out to the Castle. Yeah. _The_ Castle. AKA, Minutemen Headquarters, aka current postal address of one very righteous and annoying Preston Garvey, aka the last place Deacon wanted to go. The Glowing Sea was favorable to this place, honestly. He'd rather suck up a few rads than someone's righteous bullshit. And to make matters worse… he had to travel up through University Point. Had to pass by all the old areas he used to haunt. Had to avert his gaze when he came across a place that had almost been a home.

The mission was complicated. It was well known that the Minutemen didn't fear the Institute, didn't see Big Brother as the enemy. Preston Garvey himself had expressed doubt time and again that the Institute was anything to fear. Word had circulated through the ranks, and a consensus had formed: the Institute was not the enemy.

That left a sour taste in Deacon's mouth and a gaping hole in Minuteman logic. If they didn't think the Institute was the enemy… then who were they fighting against? Raiders were disorganized, fractured into opposing factions. They only posed a threat in great numbers. Supermutants? Generally only a problem when hungry and/or scouting out new territory. But the Institute? They were the eyes behind the one-way mirror, the invisible hands pushing and prodding and killing and taking. They were _everything_.

So his mission – which was to set up a supply line of sorts with the Minutemen in order to transport defected synths into new settlements – was essentially over before it even started. There was no way Garvey would support this. Why Des even wanted him to bother was beyond his ability to comprehend. Sure, Deacon was a fucking silvertongue, but he and Preston had history. Not the good kind of history either.

He had to take down a few Gen 1s and 2s along the way – what the hell they were doing so close to the Castle, he wasn't sure, but it didn't sit well with him. As soon as the crumbling edifice of a settlement was in view, Deacon felt his airways tighten. He'd never been to the place himself – had heard some sort of massive sea creature shacked up inside for the past couple years – but he had to admit, he was impressed. Turrets covered every possible angle of attack, even pointed out towards the sea, and there was some sort of old-school bombing-contraption set up, facing the remains of the city behind Deacon.

He had to give Charmer credit. A year ago, the Minutemen were almost obsolete. Now, they were well organized, well led, and _really_ well armed. Damn.

One of the watchers atop the Castle walls must've sent word down that Deacon had arrived. He was wearing a new face, so no one was likely to remember him, but Garvey would recognize the voice. Couldn't ever change the voice. That, and there were the ever-present sunglasses.

The man himself emerged from between two crumbling walls, sweat gathering on his dark forehead. Although his very distinguishable and pretentious hat was missing, Garvey wore the rest of his Minuteman ensemble. Deacon refrained from curling his lips in contempt. Today, he had to play nice.

"Friend or foe?" Preston asked as he approached Deacon, his dark eyes sizing the newcomer up. Although he didn't have his laser musket drawn, it was slung over his shoulder, ready to be used if necessary.

Deacon held up his hands. "Friend. Count that as old friend, actually. What, don't recognize me, Garvey?"

A glare immediately formed in Preston's eyes. "Deacon." Now he _did_ size Deacon up, but honestly, the Railroad agent could have laughed. If it came down to it, the Minuteman didn't have it in him to kill Deacon. Went against his code of honor. "Been a long time. Long enough for you to get a new look."

"You got that right," Deacon grinned. "You like it? I went for handsome, but not _too_ handsome. Couldn't compete with you, anyway. You've got the bone structure."

Just barely refraining from rolling his eyes, Preston asked, "What is it you want? I'm busy."

"I can see that," Deacon commented lightly. "Seems like you got your ranks back, _and_ the Castle? Honestly, I'm impressed."

Preston grunted at that. "Nothing you say is honest. Just come out with it. Why are you here?"

Deacon gave the younger man an easy smile. "You and I need to talk, Garvey. Got somewhere private we can go?"

* * *

"I've told you before – I'm not getting involved in the Railroad," Preston said flatly, his palm resting on the table between him and Deacon. "Ya'll are nothing but trouble. Crying wolf all the time, pointing at monsters in the dark that aren't even there."

Deacon curled his fingers into a fist under the table. Garvey was stubborn as hell – in fact, it reminded him of a certain someone – but more than that, Garvey was _naïve_. "Look, I'm not asking you to believe that the Institute is a threat. All I'm asking is that you help out some people who desperately need it. That's what you do anyway, right? What makes this any different?"

A long-suffering sigh came from Preston's lips. He looked away from the Railroad agent, his mouth pressing into a flat line. "Because I don't trust you. Or your people. You remember why?" Now, he looked Deacon straight in the eyes, his dark irises burning. "Or do I need to refresh your memory?"

And this was why the mission was impossible. "Nah, my memory's good, thanks. Good enough to recall that what happened in the swampland… That was an accident. You don't believe me, that's fine, but for once I'm telling the truth."

"You left me for dead," Preston growled, leaning forward, his perfect white teeth barred. "And you're gonna call that an accident?"

"Yeah," Deacon said, tone light. "'Cause I thought you _were_ dead. Excuse me for not having a medical degree, been hard to fine the time for that, what with the world being fucked over. You weren't breathing and I couldn't find a pulse!"

"There were _three_ deathclaws, Deacon. Three." Jesus, if looks could kill. "And you took my gun. Couldn't even leave me with something to defend myself, huh?"

Deacon tossed his hands in the air. "I didn't think a dead man needed to defend anything!"

As if sensing that was the perfect moment for someone to interrupt this little reunion, the door to the War Room burst open behind Deacon. He closed his eyes briefly and thanked whatever gods were looking out for him, but then Preston had to go and open his mouth and ruin the whole enterprise.

"General?" Preston stood, an anxious look on his face. "Everything okay?"

 _General_. Fuck. The gods hated him. Hated him so much, and wanted him to know it. Honestly, why did he even bother? He ought to toss himself off the east side of the Castle and straight into the sea. Let some monster gobble him up.

As if to dig the knife in deeper, her low voice rang through the room, pretty as ever. "Everything's fine. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… Deacon?"

Of course, she was the only person who could ever distinguish him when disguised. He let his posture relax and turned in his chair to face her, giving a little wave with his fingers. "Boss. Or is it General? Honestly, I can't keep up."

Ooh, maybe that came out harsher than he intended. Charmer's eyes narrowed at his irreverent tone, then darted between him and Preston. Before she could open her mouth, however, Preston beat her to it.

"You two know each other?" By the sound of it, little ole Garvey boy was pretty upset about that. A little more upset than a lieutenant ought to be for his Commanding Officer…

Deacon clenched his jaw and glanced back towards Preston. Yeah, there it was, written all over the man's face – his heart on his sleeve, like an absolute fool. Preston had a thing for his General. And given the way Charmer had been so quick to run off when Garvey called for her…

"We know each other," Charmer nodded at Preston, tone curling with suspicion. "And you? You two… are acquainted?"

Deacon wore a lazy smile. "Oh, Garvey and I, we go way back. In't that right, Garvey? He didn't used to be such a stick in the mud, but what can I say. Old age eats away at all of us differently."

Charmer didn't buy his bullshit for a second. "That right, Preston?"

The Minuteman stood stiffly beside the table, hands clenched at his sides, glare focused steadily on Deacon. "Not really how I recall it. But that doesn't matter, right now. Deacon was just leaving."

"Kicking me out already? Gotta say, thought I at least had another hour." Tamping down his irritation, Deacon grinned up at the Preston. "We gotta deal, then?"

"No."

Honestly, Garvey didn't have a strategic bone in his body. Interest piqued, Charmer stepped forward. "Deal regarding what?" Training her eyes on Deacon, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Well, boss-lady, our _other_ boss-lady was hoping to secure a place for a couple 'a new… packages… that recently arrived. Thought they'd be safest here." As he spoke, he watched the gears turn in Charmer's head. Yeah, Preston was naïve, all right. But Charmer – well, she might just save the day.

Canting her head sharply at her second in command, Charmer frowned. "And you're saying no?"

"I…" Preston glanced between the pair, confusion and betrayal darkening his eyes. "You work for the Railroad?" He finally asked Charmer. It was already abundantly clear what he thought of the idea – clearly, anyone who was associated with Deacon immediately lost some of their shine in Preston's view. Asshole.

Steeling her posture, Charmer crossed her arms over her chest. "That a problem for you? 'Cause if it is, I can walk. You don't need me anymore, anyway."

Deacon was just as floored as Preston, but wasn't stupid enough to show it. She'd walk out on the Minutemen for the Railroad? Just like that?

"The hell are you talking about? Nora – we still need you. We always will."

There it was again – another man who knew Charmer's real name, another man who wasn't Deacon.

He felt sick.

"You know what?" Deacon stood suddenly, needing to regroup, get some space, get some _air_. "I'll let you two hash this out. When you need me, I'll be outside." Then he darted past Charmer, careful to avoid her piercing gaze, and ducked out the doorway she'd left open.

A name was just a name, and you can't trust anyone, anyway. It didn't matter what they went by… or if they never chose to share it with you.

* * *

"You're such an asshole."

Deacon watched Charmer approach him from behind his sunglasses. He sat against the stone of the Castle, arms crossed over his chest, legs splayed out. Honestly, the Minutemen had it good here. Purified water, fortified walls, and a helluva lotta guns. Hell, they even set up a bar. What more could a guy ask for?

As the full weight of Charmer's glare settled on him, Deacon forced himself to remain relaxed. "Yeah, I think we agreed on that before."

Ooh, she was pissed. Absolutely livid. Her knuckles turned white at her sides. "Is this a joke to you?"

"I think it'd be faster if we talked about what isn't a joke to me."

Sometimes, he didn't know when to shut up.

"Yeah? Let's start with that, then. What's not a joke to you, Deacon?"

He pretended her hard eyes didn't get to him. "Honestly? All this knee pain. Really sucks the fun out of life, y'know?"

How she kept calm in the face of his incessantly cheeky attitude would always elude him. _No one_ had that much patience. Not Mother Teresa (he still doubted her existence), not Jesus (definitely never existed), not even Ghandi (well, he probably existed). She'd only ever lost her temper that one time in the Redford, and honestly, he'd deserved it. Just like he did now.

Yet still, she wouldn't give in to her anger. The longer she stared down at him, the more eerily calm she grew. Honestly, it made him want to squirm on the spot.

"And me?" she asked finally, the anger swept out of her tone. All that was left was… exhaustion. "Am I a joke to you?"

Deacon would look back on this moment as being one of those crucial times in his life when he needed to say the right thing. Being impudent here was the wrong call – even _he_ knew that. But what else was he supposed to be? Honest?

How about evasive.

"I dunno," he scratched at his wig. "Am I a joke to you? 'Cause it sure as hell seems that way."

Yup, that was the wrong thing to say.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" The anger returned, full force. Charmer tugged on her hair in frustration. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Are you loyal to the Railroad?" he asked suddenly, his mouth opening and forming words before he could stop himself. This was stupid. So stupid. What he really meant was _are you loyal to me_? And he couldn't even get that out.

Fraud. Such a fraud.

Charmer scoffed at him. Looking up at her like this was really starting to put a kink in his neck. "Are you kidding me? Is that what this is about?" She pointed behind her. "You heard me back there. If Preston had a problem with me being a Railroad agent, then I was ready to walk. And you think I'm not loyal?"

"You still ready to walk?" he pushed. "Come to any sort of understanding with the boy scout? Or are you still gonna work on settlements that won't accept harmless synths? People in need of help?"

Tossing her hands in the air, Charmer growled in frustration. "You've lost it, you understand? Lost it." The way she looked at him, it was so… disappointed. It made his stomach twist into knots. "I worked it out with Preston. You can send your 'packages' here anytime, we'll be ready for them. As for yourself… you can head back to HQ alone."

She walked away from him, shoulders stiff and steps calculated, headed back towards where she and Garvey had been speaking. Deacon watched her until she was out of sight, frown marring his lips. He was such a fuck-up.

Just because you couldn't trust anyone… doesn't mean you don't _need_ anyone.

* * *

He didn't see her again for another two weeks. What she did during that time, he didn't know. Wasn't like he couldn't have figured it out by talking to one of his countless contacts, but it just couldn't go down that way. He didn't _want_ to know. He had fucked up, and that was that. He needed to focus on his ops and let it go, because there was no way she'd forgive him after what he'd said.

And if that kept him awake at night… well, he'd just have to live with it. Being a Railroad agent meant you didn't get a lot of sleep, anyway.

She waltzed back into HQ two weeks after their argument at the Castle. Everyone greeted her with smiles and warm welcomes – unsurprising, since it was Charmer, after all. Everyone loved her – even Glory, who had only ever loved her freakin' minigun. Des came out of her office at the exact moment Charmer met Deacon's gaze. She gave nothing away – not a hint of what she was thinking or feeling. In a way, he was proud. In another way… that nauseated feeling returned.

"Good to have you back, Agent," Des greeted, her voice as warm as Deacon had ever heard it. "We have some things to discuss."

Evidently, those things needed to be discussed in private. Deacon watched as Charmer was led back to Des's office, while everyone else returned to work.

Everyone except Glory. Hardly a foot away from Deacon, she stared him down, expression blank but eyes hard. "You the reason why she stayed away for so long?" she finally asked, surprising him. Glory usually didn't care about these things. Made a point to avoid them, in fact. That she was even asking him bespoke her fondness for Charmer.

"What makes you say that?" he asked innocently.

Glory frowned at him before looking off toward Des's office. "Maybe the fact that you two were glued together at the hip until about three weeks ago. And now she can hardly stand to look at you."

Deacon smiled faintly. "Who knew you were so perceptive?"

Glory stepped towards him, expression hard. "Don't fuck things up, Deacon. I like that woman. She's good for us."

Deacon didn't have the heart to tell the heavy that he'd already fucked things up.

* * *

"Des gave us an assignment."

It was Charmer's voice that roused him from his fake sleep. He couldn't tell if she had known he wasn't really sleeping, or if she just didn't care. He hoped it was one more than the other.

Rolling onto his back, Deacon stared up at his counterpart. "Yeah? You didn't request someone else to tag along with you?"

Charmer arched a brow. "Should I?"

Deacon was a master at reading between the lines, but this was maxing out his limits. He couldn't tell if she was extending an olive branch, or merely being professional. "I dunno. Is there another devilishly handsome guy around with the impressive ability to make an ass of himself?" It wasn't much of an apology, but it was the best he could give.

Charmer at least smiled a little at that, if a bit reluctantly. "No, I think that's just you. In fact, if I ever had to describe you, I think that'd be it."

"Even the devilishly handsome part?"

She gave him a warning look. "Don't push it."

Smiling, Deacon sat up. "Then I guess we have an assignment."

* * *

If Deacon had any proper sense of self-preservation – and more importantly, shame – he would've known not to open his mouth and risk angering an already unhappy Charmer and make their present fragile situation worse. But Deacon never really had much in the sense of self-preservation beyond saving himself from being mortally wounded, and he was notorious for being a _very_ shameless liar. So there was that.

"Your lieutenant has a crush on you."

Charmer gave him a sharp look. Yup, she was still pissed. "You know what, we don't have to talk."

That was true, but he couldn't deal with the silence. Made him think too much. "Aah, so you already knew that." He shrugged. "Of course you did. You know everything, don't you?"

"I know that if you keep pushing my buttons just for the hell of it, I'll give you a damn good reason to get another face change. Understand?"

Ooh, quite the threat. And he knew she could deliver. "Ten-four, boss." He gave a mock salute and busied himself with orientating their location instead of pushing her on the matter further. It would have its time, and besides, he hadn't been this far south in ages, really, and for good reason. The southern part of the Commonwealth was a risky place to be.

"Sun will be setting soon," he noted. "Got any idea where we should shack up for the night?"

Charmer mulled this over. "If we head a bit east of here, there should be a house I cleared not too long ago."

That got his attention. "Yeah? What were you doing all the way down here?"

Charmer shrugged. "A settlement was being harassed by supermutants."

"And I assume these supermutants are dead."

At that, she smiled. "Very much. As dead as dead can be."

"You know, that'd probably be creepy coming from just about anyone else. But you? You make it work."

Charmer rolled her eyes. She began heading east, towards some destination she had locked away inside her head, and he followed diligently. After a five-minute silence – a silence that left Deacon itching to run away and hide from all his problems, since he could tell Charmer was working up to asking him something he probably didn't want to be asked – Charmer glanced at him over her shoulder.

Just as he predicted, a familiar light was in her eyes, one that always lingered when she had something she wanted to say. He braced himself for what was to come next.

"What happened between you and Preston?"

Deacon exhaled deeply. That was literally the last question he expected to hear, after _why are you so good looking, Deacon?_ or _are you charming by nature or nurture?_ Okay, maybe she disliked him a little too much to be thinking those things right now. But Preston? Why'd that matter?

"What makes you think something happened between me and Preston? I mean, yeah, those cheekbones are to die for, but hey. Can't say he's really my type." There you go, Deac. See if you can piss her off some more by being endlessly evasive, yeah? It's not like you're ridiculously relieved she's even talking to you, or wondering if you're dreaming or whatever. Nah. S'all good.

Charmer gave him a stern look. "You know something, Deacon? I'm pretty pissed at you. Remember why?"

He sucked that breath back in. Use your fucking words, Deacon. Don't be a shithead. "Yeah, boss. I remember."

"Good. So why don't you just answer my question for once? You owe me that."

She was right. She always was, wasn't she? Staring down at his boots as he stepped over various debris and detritus, Deacon nodded reluctantly. He pressed his lips together, searching for some sort of starting point. A _candid_ starting point. God, it was like pulling teeth. For a while, Deacon had believed he was literally unable to tell any modicum of truth. Still kinda felt that way. But if he knew anything about Charmer… he'd have to learn that skill again, at least moderately.

After meeting Charmer's questioning gaze for another second, he began.

"Once upon a time, the Minutemen were ready to help anyone. Human, synth, ghoul… although, on second thought, they never extended a hand towards a supermutant. Probably didn't think they'd get it back... they _do_ like hands." His eyes, covered by his sunglasses, looked out over the landscape as he thought. They had passed abandoned buildings, a church here and there, a diner. "Knowing that they'd help out where needed, I asked Preston to help me escort a package southwest of here. Glory hadn't joined up yet and there weren't many heavies to speak of back then – most were either busy running their own ops or getting hunted down by coursers. So I had to turn to the boy scout."

By the look in her green gaze, Charmer was listening intently. Probably recognized this moment for what it was – one of the rare times in which Deacon would actually be honest. She looked… more open than usual. He could read her better, like her guard was down.

He wished he could see more of that.

"And the mission went south?" she asked, then chuckled a little grimly. "Well, so to speak."

Deacon shrugged. "Technically, the op was a success. We placed the package in a safe settlement and got the hell out. It was on the way back to Lexington when… things took a turn for the worse. Long story short: we were attacked by three deathclaws. _Three_. It already seemed so futile… I didn't think we'd make it. And when Preston got hit, he was down and out. Deathclaws didn't even bother with him anymore, just assumed he was dead. So did I."

Her lips were pressed together tightly, and Deacon guessed that she likely could intuit the end of this story. "So you left him. And that's why he hates you."

"Ooh, hates?" Deacon grinned finally, the hard part – the _truthful_ part – over. "Didn't know boy scout could feel anything beyond the indomitable call of duty and some nostalgic, hillbilly sense of national pride."

Something he said must've been funny, 'cause she cracked a smile at that. "You don't give him enough credit."

Deacon threw his mask back up. "And you do, boss?" The mask was in place, but his voice… it betrayed him, like it sometimes did. That same burning feeling he'd had about Charmer and Hancock came rushing back. Charmer and Preston? God, that was so much worse.

Shoving a lock of black hair out of her face, Charmer arched a brow. "I give credit where it's due," she said vaguely, marching ahead of him in order to conceal her face. Deacon watched her carefully. Sometimes, he wondered if Charmer acted this way around him – guarded and secretive and locked down – because _he_ did the same.

What if he were honest more often? Would she be, too?

What did it matter? People always lied, no matter what. Couldn't trust anyone. Even if you wanted to. Really wanted to.

They came across a two-story house that managed to keep most of its walls intact, despite being closer to the blast site. There was a familiar Railroad callsign chalked onto the siding, foretelling a cache hidden inside. Definitely Charmer's work. The fact that she'd left a callsign and a cache behind, in case any other agent came by… He wished he could go back to the Castle and take what he'd said back. All of it.

"Come on," Charmer said, shoving open the door. She chained it behind the two of them while Deacon lit up a lantern he found on a dining table. It'd grown darker during their walk and was nearly pitch black out, now, a half-moon hanging in the sky above them, visible through the partially caved in roof.

"What's in the cache?" he asked offhandedly, wondering what she thought was useful enough to leave behind.

Charmer shrugged. "Some food, couple of stimpacks and radaways, and some ammunition. Figured if any agent found themselves this far south, they'd be running short on luck."

"You're probably right."

"Anyway, there are some sleeping bags tucked inside one of the cupboards. I'll get a fire started for some food."

They worked in silence; Deacon setting up the sleeping arrangements, Charmer making her famous Blamco Mac n' Cheese. She kept stealing glances at him, but he couldn't read them. When she wanted, she had a damn good poker face. No sunglasses necessary.

"You didn't ever apologize?" she finally asked again as she handed Deacon a plate of food.

He didn't need her to clarify – he knew they were still talking about Preston. "Never came up," he said simply.

Of course, she didn't buy that bullshit. "Really? You two never crossed paths again? He didn't seem, oh, I don't know, a little pissed that you gave up on him?"

Deacon clenched his teeth together. "Does it really matter? Garvey and I weren't friends then, and we aren't now. Saying sorry wouldn't do anything for either of us."

Charmer had been ready with a retort before that, but clamped her mouth shut now. She stared at Deacon with a mixture of anger, frustration, and sadness. "You really believe that?"

"I believe that you can't trust anyone," he said firmly. "No one. 'Cause when you do, shit happens, and you can't go back. I never promised Garvey anything, so he shouldn't have expected me to hang behind and sign my own death sentence for him."

Charmer set her plate on the ground, the ceramic clattering on the wood. Shit, he knew this would happen. Had expected it from the moment she said they had the assignment. Things would circle back to the argument they had at the Castle, and they'd just end up worse off than before.

He watched intently as she leaned back against a desk, her limbs stiff and her mouth pulled into a tight frown. Gears shifted behind her eyes, but he couldn't get anything out of them. Couldn't prepare himself for what she might say. And he found himself needing to do that, more and more. Needing to be prepared for things to go south with Charmer.

'Cause it was gonna hurt. He couldn't even lie to himself about it. He knew.

She sat for so long like that, he thought she wasn't gonna say anything at all. Returning his attention to his food, he half-heartedly finished it and set the plate off to the side. He stared down into the lamplight, at the shadows it cast, at her boots on the floor right next to his.

"You really think you can't trust anyone?" Charmer finally asked, her voice so quiet he almost thought he imaged her speaking. But he had never known her to sound so… heartbroken. Not even during those nightmares she had. This was worse.

He turned towards her, but she was staring down at her hands. Seeing things he couldn't. Things he wanted to see. "The world's not what it used to be, back when you were living in it," he said, equally as quiet. "I… I've seen some of the worse things humanity is capable of. Worse than the bombs, the War. I've lost people."

"We've all lost people," she said sharply, heat rising in her tone.

He nodded. "Yeah, we have. It's just… it was my own fault. Losing her." Shit – shit, he did _not_ mean to say that. This wasn't something they could discuss. This wasn't something they could _ever_ discuss.

The anger she felt not a moment before simmered down. Charmer stared at him openly, her lips parted, as if some great secret had finally been revealed to her. As if she understood without him saying anything else what he was talking about.

As much as Deacon tried to keep people from knowing him, understanding him, he realized in that moment that Charmer did. She understood him. Because she didn't push him to talk about it more. She just nodded her head, her eyes thoughtful and stormy. "I… I didn't know. I'm sorry." Then she sighed, the sound heavy and tired and too old for someone as young as she. "I am sorry, Deacon. But you can't live the rest of your life trusting _no one_. You just can't."

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then again, being in the Railroad doesn't really guarantee you a long life expectancy."

Her fists tightened at her sides, and he knew that was the last thing she wanted to hear. "You can be fatalist all you want. Whatever. I get that you're just going to keep pushing me away, no matter what I do. But there are other ways to live, Deacon. Better ways."

His whole body vibrated with unease. She had never been so blunt before. Charmer… here she was, offering him a way out, a chance, and he knew he wasn't going to take it. He couldn't – he wasn't ready. She already _knew_ that. But it fucking hurt, having to just shake his head, to dodge yet another chance extended to him, another lifeline.

"I hear you, boss."

But that's all he could say. You can't trust anyone if you've gone too long on your own. Sometimes, you can't fight what's become second nature.

* * *

As soon as he saw her go down, something deep within Deacon broke, snapped right in half, taking most of his control and ingrained common sense with him. He should have known. _He should have known_. Heading this far south, without power-suits, without extra protection – he should have known this could happen. She could get hurt, _or worse._ She _was_ hurt.

His eyes darted around the battlefield frantically, assessing the situation, counting heads. There were too many supermutants. Too many for his one gun and his less talented method of taking them out. If he tried crossing the street to help her, he'd end up dead – and then so would she. It took every ounce of strength he had to plant his feet firmly on the ground and remain hidden behind cover – a rusted out old retro truck that had probably been some shade of red in the good ole' days. '

The cry that had wrenched from her chest echoed in Deacon's ears – the pain, the surprise. He'd never heard her sound like that, and that's how he knew. That she was hurt, _bad_. It was bad. Worse yet, the supermutants would've heard, too, and would close in on her soon.

He needed to move. To do _something_.

Darting towards an old blue truck for cover, Deacon pulled up the map of combatants in his head. Two muties to his right, another two down the alleyway adjacent to Charmer. He had his sniper rifle and a laser pistol – that was it. The rifle could do some damage, but it'd be slower… He'd need to scope them out, hit the right place to save bullets, to not waste precious time. The laser pistol was more of a last resort. Too weak for their tough skin.

He counted down from three in his head, chambered a bullet, and rose from cover. It was sighted too close, but Deacon made it work – shot one supermutant clear through the skull, spraying brain matter all over the Jamaican Plains mayoral office. The dead mutie's partner looked on in surprise, but his reflexes kicked in. He charged towards Deacon, but was too late. Another clean shot through the head.

Adrenaline pumped thickly through Deacon's veins. He could hear the other supermutants shouting, the scuffle of their leather boots on the ground. Charmer. He needed to cover Charmer before they got too close.

Rounding the truck, he darted from one pocket of cover to another until he came across where he'd saw her fall.

But she wasn't there. A helluva lotta her blood was, but not her.

Deacon's stomach twisted painfully into a knot. They got her – they got her and he was too late, he was –

"You gonna stand out in the open all night, or you gonna join me?"

The relief made his knees turn into jelly. Deacon swiveled about, his gaze immediately zeroing in on the missing woman. She had dragged herself several feet into the doorway of an old pawn shop, and half stood, half leaned against the doorjamb to get his attention.

Charmer. Thank God, Charmer.

One hand clutched her abdomen, completely covered in blood and getting worse. How she was even standing, he couldn't fathom. He was by her side in a second, registering the nearing voices of the supermutants, the gasp she tried to smother as he wrapped an arm around her and led her further inside the shop.

"Stop," she said, her voice cracking in pain. "I've gotta kill them."

Deacon didn't stop until he had pulled her underneath the counter, ushered her to sit. "No," he said, and his hands were shaking. Utterly trembling, as if it were the middle of winter, had plunged his hands into the grey snow, and he was halfway towards getting frostbite. "I'll kill them. You – you, take this." He grabbed one of his shirts from his pack and thrust it into her hands. "Try to stop the bleeding."

He worked on autopilot, taking one last look at her tired eyes and pale skin, before silently trudging back outside to handle the other two supermutants. _She'saliveshe'saliveshe'salive_ ran through his mind in rapid repetition, as if he was trying to reassure himself that he had touched her, he had seen her, it wasn't all a dream. She was okay, for now.

The thought nearly derailed him enough to get him killed. He didn't see the two supermutants round the corner, one with a submachine gun, the other with a machete. They saw him immediately, let out a war cry of sorts, something that sent shivers up his arms, and charged forward. The one with the gun apparently didn't deem Deacon enough of a threat to waste bullets on, and that played in Deacon's favor. The brute tossed the gun aside and grabbed the sledgehammer slung over his back with a beatific, gleeful smile. The muties charged towards him in unison, fully intending to beat him into a very large, very indiscernible puddle of blood and bone.

Fortunately for Deacon, he had Charmer's combat rifle now, equipped with all of its fascinating mods which helped her completely eviscerate some hundreds of monsters over the past several weeks. As soon as he fired it, he felt sure of himself. It took two bullets each to take them down – just two bullets each. Holy fuck, the hell did she make this gun with?

He shot them once more in the head just to be sure before he rushed back inside. Forgetting the weapon on a chair, he crouched down beside Charmer, who was growing paler by the second. Her eyelids fluttered, as if she were struggling to keep them open.

"Charmer – Charmer, come on. Don't close your eyes, kay? You've had worse than this. I know. I _know_. Just don't close your eyes." His hands seemed to belong to someone else – they fluttered over her, removed her chest armor, lifted the shirt, examined the wound. He already had a stimpack out, had plunged it into her skin, watched as it struggled to contain the blood. A stimpack wouldn't be enough. They needed to stop the bleeding, needed to get her to a doctor.

"I'm…" she sucked in a breath, wheezing, her hands weakly pulling at his own. "I'm… trying."

"I know. You're doing great – you're strong, you know that? You'll be okay." He didn't even realize he was speaking, couldn't register the words. The blood. There was so much. So much, and he was just some fraud who could lie like nobody's business, some shithead who couldn't even stitch a wound. What was he supposed to do?

Charmer, even in her state, caught on to his distress. One weakly colored green eye peeked up at him from underneath thick lashes. She didn't seem all there – like her mind was in two places at once. "In… in the military," she coughed, "they'd use duct tape. I… have some in my pack."

Duct tape. It seemed ludicrous, but Charmer was the pro here, the boss. He stood and grabbed the pack she'd left near the doorway, dug through it until he came across a small roll.

Taping someone's skin together seemed macabre. It _felt_ wrong, or maybe that was just because it was Charmer's skin he was trying to piece back together. Either way, after struggling to get it to stick to her wet skin, he succeeded. She fell into a blood-loss induced slumber, and he frantically searched for a radio.

* * *

He never thought he'd be happy to see Preston Garvey and his goons. In truth, Deacon had never been happier to see anyone in his life. Garvey had his musket drawn and led a group of four, including a doctor of sorts, through the rubble of Jamaican Plains, his head held high and eyes sharp.

"Garvey."

Deacon had certainly earned the title 'spook'. Five pairs of rifles pointed at him before Garvey called everyone off. He didn't even bother exchanging pleasantries. The Minuteman looked as panicked as Deacon felt.

"Where is she?"

"In here."

He led the group inside, watched in relief as the doctor immediately got to work. Didn't even notice the tense silence that had fallen over the room as ever pair of eyes was trained on the wounded General.

After several minutes, Preston finally turned to Deacon. "What happened?"

Deacon was vibrating with anxiety. Couldn't take his eyes off the doc, off the wound that had been revealed again, the stimpacks and various other drugs laying all around Charmer. "Supermutants. We were attacked on all sides. She didn't see it coming."

"And the supermutants?"

"Dead."

Preston looked back at his General, his lips white, paler than the rest of him. "Good."

Charmer didn't wake up, and that was a blessing in itself. The doctor was stitching her up with a wicked looking needle. Charmer was tough, but the sight even made Deacon wince. She was being sewn up like a pillow. Like she wasn't just skin and bone and blood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Preston shift. The Minuteman placed his gun on the countertop, removed his hat. He ran his hands over his short hair over and over again, the tension building up on his shoulders.

The argument he'd had with Charmer the previous night came back to him. The things she'd said that he'd disregarded so easily. The things that mattered to her.

His throat felt tight, like someone had wrapped their fingers around it and wouldn't let go. "Preston." Dark eyes turned to Deacon, broiling their own form of self-loathing within, their own guilt and worry and agony. "Preston, look… About before…" It was hard, forming those words. Any words that were too close to the truth.

But Preston just shook his head, eyes already back to Charmer. "Don't. It's not necessary anymore. We're… we're even, all right?"

The knots in his stomach untangled somewhat. "All right."

* * *

Charmer woke three days later. He knew the exact moment when she did, because he'd been resting his head on the blankets of her bed and she jostled him as she moved.

"Charmer?" He didn't recognize his own voice – coiled taut like a spring, heavy. "Take it slow."

She tried sitting up, but clutched at her side before she got too far. Her eyes were a murky green, the color mutfruit's leaves, and they settled on him wearily.

"How long?" she asked simply.

Knots were forming in his shoulders. "About four days."

She seemed satisfied with this, for whatever reason. Nodding, she said, "Guess that's better than two hundred years."

He laughed. It felt like he hadn't laughed in so long. "I bet anything feels better than two hundred years."

"You're not wrong." Laying her head back against the pillow, Charmer exhaled slowly. "You hurt?"

Her hands played with the edge of the blanket, and he wanted so badly to just hold them, stroke her soft skin, feel the warmth of her body, the very real proof that she was alive and here with him. "Not much," he replied softly. "Maybe a few images I can't scrub outta my head, but nothing worse. Might give Amari a visit, get my eyes cleaned out, if you know what I mean."

Charmer smiled at him, and his stomach dipped to his toes. She'd smiled at those synths in Ticonderoga like this. Soft, genuine. "I'd trade ya if I could."

"Me too."

The smile remained, and he felt so unworthy of it. So low. Charmer was alive, but she'd almost been killed because of him. Because he didn't have her back.

Sometimes he swore she was a mind reader. "Don't be an asshole and go blaming yourself, Deac. I got a little careless. It's my own fault."

His hands were fisted at his sides. "Not really seeing how that's true from over here."

She shrugged lightly, mindful of her stitches. "Those sunglasses obstructing your view? You could consider taking them off, sometime. Might be able to see me better."

A smile worked its way onto his mouth. He couldn't argue with her – she'd fire all his shots back at him. "Then where would the mystery – the excitement – go? Nah, boss. Can't have you running off on me anytime soon." He pointed at his glasses. "I know this is what draws you in."

Rolling her eyes, Charmer sighed. "You're right – it's definitely not your sunny personality, since we both know you don't have one."

And there it was. He felt pieces of him falling back into place again. Because Charmer could stand to look at him – Charmer was _alive_ – and things would be okay. They would be.

You can't trust anyone, but Charmer wasn't just anyone. She was everything.

* * *

"Doc said you need to take it easy, y'know."

Charmer glared at him. She was already bereft several guns and her pack, courtesy of Deacon, her new pack mule, and looking bare and small in just her lightweight armor with a single holster at her side. "I'm skeptical of anyone who practices medicine in a wasteland without universities to get a degree from."

He scoffed, mostly to play along than anything else. "Yeah? Think we wastelanders are too dumb for you, now?"

A smirk broke out on her face, brightening her eyes, making her pale skin look healthier. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Your pretention is stifling. Honestly, who needs a degree? We get on just fine, here. Some people die of dysentery every now and again, but y'know, you win some and you lose some."

Charmer chuckled. "Whatever you say."

"I _was_ saying that you need to take it easy. It feels like we're running a fucking marathon." He ran a hand over his wig, wishing he could wipe the sweat from his head. As usual, the wasteland's sun beat down on the pair unforgivingly as they travelled back to HQ.

"I need to take it easy, or you do, old man?" The smile she gave him felt like something shared just between them. Something for his eyes only, no one else. It was playful, and seeing her like this, after watching her be cooped up in bed for week, was a damn relief. "Knees hurting again? Or is it your back this time? We can stop so you can catch your breath, if you want."

"Ha-ha," he deadpanned, but inside, he was soaring. "Keep it up. I'll start accidentally dropping some of your stuff. There's a rose-colored dress in here, y'know, washed and everything. That'll be the first to go."

The glare returned. "I dare you to."

"Challenge accepted."

He moved to open her pack, but before he could, she'd grabbed his arm with a disapproving stare. They stood there, unmoving, heat pooling on their shoulders, her hand burning hot on his skin. He stared down at it, at her pale and soft hand against his rough, tanned arm. There were scars on her hand he hadn't noticed before, but they were light, as if extremely old.

Charmer stared down, too, a frown on her lips. Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away, her eyes becoming guarded once more. "Touch that dress and I'll feed you to a deathclaw."

Deacon tried to pick up their pace from before. That lightheartedness, that softness. He didn't want her to retract – not again. "I somehow doubt that. You like me too much."

She smiled at him, but it was a careful smile. "Maybe."

* * *

She was having nightmares again. He knew because he refused to sleep anywhere that wasn't right next to her, at least an arm's length away. She'd caught on to his apprehension, but hadn't commented on it.

They were in HQ. All the lanterns had been dimmed to their lowest settings. A few agents were mulling around in their respective areas, carrying on the work that didn't wait for anyone to sleep, while he and Charmer were tucked behind the far brick wall, splayed out along the row of mostly empty mattresses. There was little privacy here. Deacon had never thought much on it before, but it was sitting at the forefront of his mind now. Charmer was squirming in her bed, fighting off some attacker known only to her, muttering things in a rough language every now and again. The same phrase, over and over, repeated so much that he had it memorized.

When she bolted upright, he knew something was different about this dream. She sat up, arms supporting her weight, and took in long, deep breaths. Her chest heaved with the effort, drawing his eyes, and she kept running a hand along her throat.

Normally when she had nightmares, he'd feign sleep as soon as she woke up. It seemed like a personal thing, like something he wasn't supposed to witness. Tonight… it seemed even more personal. Like a secret he was never supposed to know.

"Deacon?"

Had she known he was awake? Her head canted towards him, though he couldn't quite make out her eyes, as they were darker still with his sunglasses still on. Her voice, low, just barely reached his ears.

"Deacon. Are you awake?"

He shifted towards her, playing at being casual. "Yeah, boss. You okay?"

She seemed to stare at him silently for several moments. Whether she was debating answering his question or something else entirely, he couldn't be sure. "Did you know I have a brother?"

That was outta left field. More alert, Deacon cleared his throat. He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to tell the truth, either. What would Charmer think, if she realized he knew her entire life's story? What would she think if she knew _his_ entire life story?

"I… what?" There. He didn't have to lie.

Charmer paused before settling back into her bed, laying on her side in order to face him. "I… have a brother. He was in the vault with me. Someone took him." At his silence, Charmer rushed on. "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I wasn't sure I could trust anyone, honestly. But I do. Trust you, I mean. And I… I'm looking for my brother."

For the first time in a long time, words escaped him. Deacon couldn't think of a single thing to say, truth or lie. Charmer was confiding something very personal to him, after all this time. To him. It might not be her name, but… maybe it meant more to her, than her name. Finally, he asked, maybe a bit stupidly, "Where do you think he is?"

He could just barely see her hand rise up to run through her short hair. "The Institute. They took him. Before I met you, I went to a detective. Nick Valentine. I found the man who took my brother. Nate… He's at the Institute."

A chill swept over his arms. Charmer had known more than he realized this whole time. But he shouldn't have underestimated her. "So we'll find him," he said confidently. Is that what she wanted from him? Help? "Together. You and me."

Her head rested into the comfy pillow she'd scavenged some weeks ago, seemingly content. "Yeah. We will." She laid on her back, and he thought she was going back to sleep, but then she spoke again. "Deacon?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Thank you. For everything."

He bit his cheek. "Yeah. Of course. It's… you're welcome."

* * *

She'd been talking to Tinker Tom for the past hour, humoring the techie about some project he was working on that could expel any possible bugs from the Institute out of one's blood. No one else at HQ had given this the time of day – bugs? In their blood? – but there was Charmer, smiling and nodding and letting the man have his piece.

They were regrouping before their next assignment, whatever that might be. Des hadn't gotten back to them yet and PAM wanted them to collect some things from a DIA cache when they went out again, so they had no reason to leave yet. Charmer wanted to check on some of the settlements she'd helped set up, but other than that, there wasn't anything pressing going on for once.

So he watched her and repeated the conversation they'd had last night over and over in his mind. But his thoughts kept circling back to something in particular – something he wasn't supposed to hear, wasn't supposed to know. Those words she'd been muttering in her sleep.

Why he was stuck on that, he wasn't sure. Charmer had had plenty of nightmares before, but this one was special in some way. Related to her brother, maybe? To the bigger picture, the woman that was Nora and not Charmer, the woman who had lived over two hundred years ago and had known a world so different than the one they now lived in?

Those words drifted in and out of his head. The way her voice broke on them. The way she begged.

"Stare at that wall any harder and I'll start to think old age has really gotten to you," he heard her say as she somehow materialized at his side, no longer across the crypt talking to Tom. He'd spaced, a rare moment.

He mock glared at her, though she wouldn't know it. "You ever gonna let up with the old man jokes?"

"I'd be doing myself a disservice if I did." She smiled at him. "So what's on your mind? Wondering what geriatric hospital is best for a man of your age? Hmm, I'll have to think about that."

He shrugged. "If we're talking about it, then you have to admit. I _have_ aged phenomenally."

He didn't miss the way her eyes sparkled. "I don't have to admit anything. But really. What's up?"

Mouth closing, Deacon thought long and hard about whether or not to bring it up. It wasn't his place. Not at all. But she'd been so worked up. Shaken. And all those spikey, towering walls she'd built up around herself… she was starting to let them down a little, if only for him.

Making sure everyone else was out of earshot, Deacon decided to give it a try. "What's _pra-stit-ye men-ya_ mean?" The words were unfamiliar on his tongue, but years of speaking in different accents made them sound less awkward.

Charmer immediately stiffened. Her eyes shuttered up like a military fort, on complete lockdown, and she stared at him sharply. "What?"

He scratched at the back of his neck, regret pooling in his stomach. "You talk in your sleep."

Clearly, she didn't know this. Her eyes widened fractionally, but her mouth formed a thin line and her body was tense all over. He shouldn't have brought it up – he realized that now – but she already knew that he knew and it was too late to take it back.

"When did I say that?" she asked in a level tone, avoiding the question but acknowledging it all the same.

He paused. "Before you woke up last night."

Nodding, as if she expected as much, Zora sighed. "Yeah, I figured." She looked away from him, off towards the main entrance to the crypt, her eyes darker than usual. "It's Russian."

"Didn't realize you spoke Russian," he said, to offer her a way out.

Charmer just nodded again. "Yeah." Then she walked off, steps quick and spine unnervingly straight. He frowned as she ducked out of sight.

* * *

"It means _forgive me_ ," she said later that day as she modded his sniper at the weapons station. He'd been hovering behind her, watching her hands work across the weapon with a comfort and familiarity he'd never felt himself, when she spoke. She said it in an offhanded sort of way, downplaying what he knew to be important to her.

Studying the curve of her neck, the scar peeking out from under her hair, he shook his head. "We don't have to talk about it. Shouldn't've brought it up." He was backtracking because he sensed she needed that. And whatever she needed, he knew he'd give it to her. He had to.

Sighing, Charmer glanced down the sniper's sights. "It means _forgive me_ ," she said again, "in Russian. We weren't just fighting the Chinese at Anchorage. The Russians, too." She paused, thoughtful. "I'd worked in Moscow not long before the war broke out. Embassy, diplomatic work. Stuff like that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She didn't look at him, but said honestly, "Because you're listening. Anyway, I'd gone back home to get my J.D. The war broke out, things got nasty, but they seemed to be… okay. For a little while. Finished my degree before I was deployed. Just barely." She twisted something near the mag of the gun. "My brother, Nate, was the one who got drafted, but we all knew… he just wouldn't have made it, if he went. Too soft. Too _young_." Her jaw clenched. "I came home the night before he was supposed to ship out. My parents hadn't told me what had happened, but when I found out… I took his uniform. Showed up when they called out our family name. No one cared that I was Nora, not Nate. Didn't even bat an eye."

The air in his chest felt heavy, cemented, as if he'd frozen from the inside out. Nora. _I was Nora_. She'd never acknowledged her real name in front of him, not once. Either she was getting sloppy, or…

"So I went to Anchorage," she continued, not even noticing Deacon's reaction to her name, or more likely pretending not to notice. "Fought there for a while. It was ugly, just… dark. It was literally dark there – the sun had set for the rest of the year when I'd arrived." A muscle worked in her jaw. She kept twisting the gun in her hands, adding things here, removing them there. "I'd been there for six months when I got captured. By the Russians, not the Chinese. That's… that's what my dream was about."

"And the scars," he added without really asking, without really registering that he was doing so. He thought he'd known everything about her, about the woman who used to only go by Nora, but that wasn't true. She'd bested him and didn't even know it. Then the realization dawned on him, and he felt… anger. "They tortured you."

Charmer shrugged, but the movement was stiff. "That was their job," she said, her tone light but her eyes hard. "That's war."

"Don't do that," he said, deadly serious, much to his own surprise. Or maybe not. He wasn't sure anymore. "Don't act like that means nothing. That's… that's fucked up, Charmer." Charmer, because he couldn't say Nora. Not yet. Not now.

"It is fucked up," she agreed in a perfunctory sort of way. "It is. But how the hell else am I supposed to deal with it?" Finally, she turned those sharp-edged green eyes on him, settled the full weight of her pain on him, and he felt terrible. "Really, tell me. How else do I handle that?"

He couldn't hold her stare. "I don't know." It was a quiet admission, felt a lot like defeat. He had all this anger and sadness inside him that he didn't know what to do with, couldn't direct at anyone – because they were two-hundred years dead – and couldn't compartmentalize. The scars. He could see them on her now, more clearly than before. Stark and white and red. Evidence that he might not fully understand this woman.

"Me either," she muttered, checking the scope of his rifle once more before resting the weapon on the table, finished.

But there was still something left of this story, something she hadn't mentioned, had circumvented like he would have done. "But you… were asking for forgiveness." It just didn't make any sense. "For what?"

The look she gave him would've sent chills down his spine, were she anyone else. Would have made him turnabout and run, never look back. But this was Charmer. That haunted look, that darkness in her eyes… it was _Charmer_.

"Because I killed them," she said softly, but her tone had an edge to it. "Every single one of them."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts? Like it? Hate it?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** : Thank you all for the reviews thus far! They are VERY appreciated and push me to keep writing. If Deacon's backstory is at all confusing or unclear for anyone right now, that's kind of the point. It'll slowly unravel, but in the next chapter, there will be more and more that surfaces. Also, this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but it will definitely be made up to you next chapter… in many ways. (:

 **Disclaimer** (which I forgot to add to earlier chapters): I obviously do not own Bethesda or the Fallout Franchise, otherwise I would have made Deacon romanceable.

* * *

Three:

"I have to go."

Those were the words he dreaded most. He knew they were coming, laying somewhere on the cusp of the horizon, edging closer and closer with every passing day. Charmer had grown anxious, fidgety. She'd look over her shoulder, stare off into the night, lips pursed and eyes drawn within. Wouldn't talk about it, even when he asked what was eating her up. Shut him out, like he'd done to her not long ago.

Deacon often had a feeling that her offer, her bluntness that one night before she'd gotten hurt, had maybe been a one-time thing. A moment of vulnerability. Had an expiration date written in big block letters. And he'd gone and fucked it up, which ate at him, pulled him apart by the seams, undid every thread he had carefully tied off in order to keep himself secure. Uncompromised.

He had realized he needed her too late, and now she was going to leave. She was going to leave him.

Charmer stared down at him, where he lay stretched across his mattress with an old weathered copy of the _Swan's Way_ in his hands, her lips tight and eyes guarded. Coils formed in his stomach, an all-too familiar feeling now, as he braced himself for the worst.

"Where're we headed today, boss?" he asked, infusing his tone with a hint of laziness, though inside his heart was pounding. _I have to go._ Not _we have to go_. Just her. Her without him. He gazed up at her openly through the frames of his sunglasses, but she wouldn't know it.

Charmer sighed softly, shifted her eyes away from him, ran a hand through her hair. Said what he already knew. "I've gotta do this by myself. I… it's better that way."

In what world could it possibly be better that way? "Sounds pretty ominous. What exactly is ' _this'_?"

Something he always admired about Charmer was the way she'd look him in the eye when things were about to get tough. "I'm going to the Glowing Sea."

Did his heart just stop beating, or did time freeze? "You're _what?"_

Offering him a faint smile, as if she'd expected this reaction, Charmer repeated, "The Glowing Sea. I have to go."

"You tryna off yourself or something?" The book on his lap fell off, forgotten, as he sat up straighter. "In case no one told you, the Glowing Sea is ground zero – y'know, where the fucking nuke got dropped? That's a suicide mission. High levels of radiation, even higher levels of supped up monsters."

Now her smile turned contrite. "You've said that about other things before. I've always made it through, or have you forgotten?"

"Have I forgotten the fucking hole that got blasted in your side two weeks ago? Nope, that's pretty fresh in my mind. What about _you_?"

Rolling her eyes, she cocked a hip. "Deacon," she said softly, gentler now. "I have to go. I'll be back. Okay?"

He couldn't stop her. He knew this, because he _knew_ her, at least on some level. She was going to go, and there was nothing he could do about it. "Then I'm going with you."

"No. You aren't."

"You need backup."

"I'll have backup," she said carefully.

Okay, so she had backup. She was taking someone with her, someone that wasn't him. Try not to feel sick at that prospect, Deac. Really, try. "Who?"

Don't say his name. Not him, don't let it be him…

"Hancock."

Not who he was expecting, but that sure as fuck didn't make it any better. "Oh great, are you two gonna shoot up and twirl across the fucking Glowing Sea like a pair of ballerinas? He put that idea in your head to begin with?" He was seeing red, or some sort of shade of it. Red. Crimson? Hancock. Charmer was going to take Hancock and go traversing about the Glowing Fucking Sea and get herself killed in the process.

Charmer was disappointingly patient with his anger. He wanted her to get mad, too. To yell, to have it out, to agree not to do something so colossally stupid. "Deacon, I _have_ to go. And Hancock is already a ghoul. It's safest if I take him – he's not gonna get hurt."

 _And you would_ was the unspoken part of that sentence. He began feeling things in grating contrasts: somewhat touched, because she didn't want him to die, and utterly betrayed, because she thought he couldn't handle it. Couldn't look out for her. Because before – she'd gotten hurt on his watch. So how could he have her back now?

"You really think Hancock can protect you out there?" _Better than me?_ A stupid question – maybe he could. Maybe, if Hancock had been with her before, she wouldn't have gotten shot. Nearly died. Maybe that wouldn't have happened.

The look on her face grew serious, yet infinitely more guarded. "That's not it, Deac. It's just… _I_ wouldn't have to worry about protecting _him_." He had to repeat the sentence several times in his head to understand it. She wouldn't have to protect Hancock. But she'd have to protect Deacon?

There were many layers to his anger, and he kept unearthing a new one. "Are you calling me a liability?"

This time, when she smiled, it was fragile. "No. Just… a distraction."

Oh.

 _Oh._

Everything faded away, his vision seeping back from crimson to a dark blackish-blue tint, his shoulders giving in and slumping forward, his breath releasing from his chest. "I don't understand." Because he couldn't think of anything else to say, and part of him was still trying to catch up. The conversation had twirled and looped around and cut corners, and his mind was still somewhere in the middle.

"I think you do," she told him firmly. "Look, I just wanted to give you a heads up before I left. But I've gotta go. I'll be back… probably in a week? Not really sure. But I'll be back. Okay?"

There it was – that tone that left absolutely zero space to argue with her. They'd just circle around to the beginning again.

She was waiting for a reply, hesitant to leave without him at least agreeing. That much was clear. Whether that made him feel better or not – well, that was a lot less clear.

"Okay," he finally said, defeated. "But you'd better come back, Charmer. Or I swear to Christ I'll go looking for you. Understand?"

"Sure thing, _boss_ ," she said with a mock salute, her eyes glinting. "But give me at least two weeks before you come running after me and get yourself killed. I'm not sure how long it'll take to get to where I'm going."

"Nothing more," he said reluctantly.

"Deal."

You couldn't trust anybody, but you especially couldn't trust Hancock to look after the woman you were half outta your mind for.

* * *

The first week crept by slowly. Deacon was beginning to recognize that his life had sprouted some sort of routine since he met Charmer: they'd travel together, do some ops, return to HQ, and then she'd be gone. And he'd be waiting for her until the next time, until the cycle restarted. She'd always be taking a new path. Sometimes he wouldn't be on that path. But he'd always be waiting.

It would bother him more if he didn't have some sort of deeper understanding of the way Charmer worked. She needed this – to do things on her own, go her own way. And that was fine. For the most part. It was just hard, to suddenly need someone who didn't necessarily need anyone themselves. It was hard to become that, after being the person who needed nothing and no one for so long.

He kept busy by securing a few safe houses in the north, checking the usual dead drops, even stopping by a few of Charmer's settlements to check up on things. After the week had passed, he returned to Desdemona, got a mission from PAM. Went after a few caches that could help give them the edge they so badly needed over the Institute.

Two weeks had nearly crawled by. He sat with Tinker Tom, listened to all his crazy theories, his strange utterances, eyes trained steadfastly on the door to HQ, waiting. Always waiting.

She'd never said what she was doing out there, but he knew it had to do with her brother. With Father. He just knew. Charmer would cross anything to get to him, even if it meant tempting death on the way. That's how much she loved her brother. Deacon could've prevented it, could've told her that he knew who he was, _how_ he knew who he was, what he was doing, that she should just let it go and move on with her life because that was a man who couldn't be saved any more. But he _knew_ Charmer. She needed to do this. On her own.

All the agents in HQ heard the _thud_ of power armor quietly walking through the catacombs. The moment it registered, everyone was battle ready. The Brotherhood of Steel had power armor – a shit-ton of it. What happened at their old HQ, it was gonna happen again, to all of them this time, not a single survivor –

Charmer's face, weary, blood-stained, edged with sweat, was the one that emerged from the catacombs. No Brotherhood of Steel paladins in sight. She seemed to not even notice that everyone had their weapons drawn, trained on her, fingers hovering over the trigger. Her gaze was on the floor, her footsteps heavy in the armor, her whole presence… tired.

When she glanced up, she saw that weapons had been lowered, seemed to register that she'd put everyone into a panic. Arching a brow, she asked, "What, didn't recognize me?"

Drummer Boy glared at her. "Was a little hard, y'know, considering," and he waved at her suit.

Charmer glanced down. "Oh. Forgot."

And that was that. Charmer was back again, he was done waiting for the time being, done worrying. But he sensed things would only get worse from here. Lined underneath all that exhaustion, she looked determined. Ready for a fight.

He had a feeling it'd be a big fight.

* * *

"Gotta say, thought you'd come back glowing," he remarked after dinner, watching the way she ate her noodle cup lethargically. Her eyes would flit from one agent in the crypt to another, never lingering long but her gaze holding some sort of indescribable suspicion. When she looked at him, she looked relieved.

"Nah. I took enough Radaway to have lasted someone a lifetime. I think I'll be fine."

"And Hancock?" It was more an obligatory question than anything else. Deacon didn't give two shits about Hancock.

A tiny smile formed at the edges of Charmer's lips. "A bit roughed up, but he'll be fine. Man said he was looking for an adventure… and I'm pretty sure he got that and more."

Whatever that meant. Deacon was the king of obscurity, but goddamn, was Charmer fit to be the queen. As she finished her dinner and gingerly set the bowl off to the side, he realized she was favoring her left side. It was subtle, as if she was trying to not alarm him or anyone else in the vicinity, but she was hurt.

Anxiety crawled up Deacon's spine as he remembered her bleeding out in that old store. "You hurt?" he asked, trying to sound casual, like he was asking the color of the sky, but the moment the words were out of his mouth her eyes sharpened.

Smirking, she said, "Going toe-to-toe with a glowing Deathclaw left me with a few scratches, but nothing too bad. Don't worry about it." A moment passed, him silent and her watching him carefully, and Charmer seemed to realize that _don't worry about it_ wouldn't cut it. Sighing, she pulled up the hem of her shirt.

He tried hard to notice the scratch first, he did, but for a moment, all he could see was pale and creamy skin. Smooth, soft, they really just didn't make 'em like this anymore… but then he caught sight of the slash that started right below her breast and nearly went to her navel, sitting at the forefront of a collection of old scars that were different shades of white and pink. The slash itself wasn't deep and had already started healing – hence no bandage – but he could see why it'd hurt.

"No rads in that thing?" he asked, if only to break the tension. Did the old crypt suddenly get really hot, or was he a hormonal teenager again?

Lowering her shirt, Charmer smirked. "I don't think so, but you could always double check."

Deacon stared back down into his own noodle cup at the comment, wanting to tug at the neckline of his plain white t-shirt. How Charmer could even flirt with him again was beyond him – they'd been through hell and back, and Deacon wasn't making it easy. "You already said before you didn't trust wasteland doctors who didn't have a medical degree," he pointed out, filling the silence. "What makes you think I'm any better?"

All she did was smile, a soft and small thing – a smile only for him – and shrug.

* * *

Between ops, Deacon had heard the whispers: the Brotherhood of Steel had arrived, en masse. He was confident in his sources' reliability, especially if intel was confirmed by three different tourists on three different occasions, but he never fully trusted anything until he saw it with his eyes.

After unloading a cache of weapons he and Charmer rounded up earlier in the day, Deacon searched around for his partner. He found her sitting against the brick wall with Glory near the shooting range, laughing and smiling, and by consequence, getting _Glory_ of all people to laugh and smile. It was a moment most wouldn't dare infiltrate – two of the most dangerous women in the Commonwealth having a laugh over their murder and mayhem – but Deacon couldn't resist.

"They were either gonna shoot me or ask for a ransom, I knew it. So I told them I knew their captain," Charmer was saying animatedly, gesturing wildly along with whatever story she was telling, "but I didn't. At least, I _thought_ I didn't – I was just scared outta my mind and thought I was clever enough to talk my way out of the situation. But it turns out – I _did_ know their captain – he was the man who'd bought my drink at the bar!"

Glory burst out laughing, going so far as to clutch her knees, and grinned fiercely at her friend. "A pirate captain bought you a drink at a bar in Cuba?" Her tone was impressed and maybe a little bit prideful. "I knew you were my kinda girl."

Deacon stepped forward, lips parted. "Wait, what? You went on a date with a pirate captain?"

Charmer's eyes turned towards him, bright and happy, and smirked. "Surprised?"

He thought about this. Was he that surprised? "Only that you said yes."

"He was handsome and charming. Plus, I didn't know he was a pirate. It's not like he had a wooden leg or an eyepatch." She shrugged and shared a grin with Glory. "One of the best nights of my life."

He couldn't help it – a smile formed on his lips in response to seeing her happy. So often she was doom and gloom, covered in gore, prepping for battle… seeing Charmer so relaxed, so at ease and smiling was a beautiful thing.

After Glory excused herself, sensing that Deacon wanted to talk to her friend alone, he asked, "So, wanna catch a glimpse of a wasteland sunset? It's no night with a pirate captain, but I can promise you'll see something you never thought could exist. And no, I'm not talking about my heart."

By the glimmer in her eyes, Charmer was already reeled in. "That's quite a promise." Then she stood, the smile still present. "Let me grab a jacket and a couple mags."

* * *

The dusk was quieter than most and the gunshots sporadic, like an uncertain tempo. Deacon kept his eyes glued to his surroundings, his trusty sniper rifle in his hands, and moved quickly towards his destination. Charmer was hot on his heels, covering his six. They'd traveled a good mile away from HQ, but hardly ran into anything but wild mongrels. It would've been peaceful were it not so strange.

"I don't like this," Charmer said quietly as the pair ducked into another alleyway. "Everything is so… still."

Deacon grinned. "And I'm about to show you why."

He heard a huff from behind him. "I don't see why you can't just _tell_ me why."

"That ruins all the fun."

"For you, or for me?"

Deacon smirked. "For _me_ , obviously. What do I care if you have any fun?"

They fell quiet when they came upon a small square, lined with what had once been high-end shops. Deacon could see firelight coming from the south, but luckily they were heading east. They'd go right around the bad guys. Raiders, most likely, lying low for the night.

"This way," he said, darting forward, staying low. The sun hadn't set yet, but the shadows were long, covering the pair as they made their way through the city.

After snaking through several more alleys, Deacon came to a stop. "And here we are." He glanced at Charmer, watching the way she eyed the scaffolding warily. "What, were you expecting some magic carpet to whisk you up to the top?"

"I don't know, are you Aladdin?"

A wrinkle formed between his brows. "Who?"

Charmer laughed hard, but quietly. She looked him up and down and nodded. "Honestly, you've got the sneaking down. You just need a monkey, a genie, and a flying carpet."

Being the butt of a joke he couldn't even understand was no fun. Deacon pouted. "It's not funny when I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's not for you to understand," she said cheekily, arching a brow. "What do I care if _you_ have fun?"

"Ha-ha. Now up you go, we're losing daylight." His hand hovered over the small of her back, absorbing the body heat radiating off of her. She smirked at him and stepped forward – just a little too close, so she brushed against his chest – and made her way up the rickety steps.

Deacon closed his eyes momentarily, pulled in a long breath. God, she was trying to kill him. And she didn't even know about his fear of heights, so it was just icing on the cake.

Once at the top of the building – the tallest in this part of the city, but at least not as tall as Trinity Tower – he watched Charmer's lips part and her eyes go wide. "Holy fuck."

"Holy something," he agreed, coming to stand beside her, his shoulder nearly touching hers. They stood side-by-side, staring up at the massive airship that hung over the bay like a leviathan. He felt small against its enormity, it's sheer volume. He'd only ever heard stories about the Prydwen, had never seen it for himself, but it had sure lived up to the tales.

"What is it?" Charmer asked reverently after a few moments.

The light was fading from the day, the sun setting far beyond the airship. For a brief few moments before it was gone for the night, the sun tinged the clouds red and orange, creating a sort of halo around the ship, but more noticeably to Deacon, creating a goldish-red halo around Charmer's dark hair.

"It's called the Prydwen," he answered, his eyes flickering from her to the ship. "It's the hallmark of the Brotherhood of Steel. They've decided to grace the 'Wealth with their presence, it seems."

Her lips puckered cutely. "Brotherhood of Steel? You mean – those guys in the power suits?"

He bit his cheek. He wasn't supposed to know. "You've met them?"

Charmer shrugged. "Just one. Kinda reminded me of Buzz Lightyear. Pretentious douchebag."

"Buzz who?"

This time, she tried hiding her smile. "Never mind. I guess I thought they were already here, since Danse is. But this… Prydwen. This means they're _all_ here?"

Deacon nodded. "The whole organization. Which is a problem for us."

"Because they hate synths," Charmer remembered. "Shit."

"That's the word for it." But that wasn't the problem right now. Not at this exact moment. Moving towards the edge of the roof, where a thick balustrade kept any sorry fool from walking right off, Deacon sat and stared out at the expanse before him, happy to take just one moment to enjoy it all. The Commonwealth had more than its fair share of ugliness, but this moment wasn't it. "But I told you – we're here for the sunset. Sit."

Charmer stared at him enigmatically. He hated the way she oscillated around him – one moment, completely open, the next shuttered up. "What, you're the boss now?" She seemed hesitant, but she sat anyway. Close enough, but still so far away.

"I think I've taken enough orders from you to give one of my own," he grinned, his smile just barely shy of genuine. Then he turned about to stare at the red-painted landscape once more. Things were gonna get rough, _really_ rough. The Brotherhood of Steel was in town, the Institute loomed over – or perhaps under – the Wealth like some biblical monster, and Deacon had _feelings_. Really rough wasn't the right phrase – it would be more like colossally rough.

Charmer seemed to have the same thought. She settled onto the balustrade more confidently and stared around at a Boston she used to know. Deacon leaned back against the railway and pretended to look up at the Prydwen as he studied the way Charmer looked when she thought no one was watching.

* * *

Deacon was reading when he heard Drummer Boy stutter.

"Jesus – the hell are you doing, walking into battle with a couple hundred deathclaws?"

His exclamation was enough to get most of the agents to glance up from their work. Deacon, however, immediately noticed that the source of Drummer Boy's surprise was his partner, so he abandoned his book and sauntered over to the pair.

When he approached, his mouth nearly dropped open. "That's a lotta firepower, boss," he said, eyes roving over the array of weapons Charmer had laid out on a table. There were literal buckets of bullets sitting under the table, arranged so each weapon had its own bucketful of ammo. "Is that a Gamma Gun?" He perked up at the sight, having never found one himself, and immediately began playing with it.

Charmer glared at him and plucked the gun from his hands. "Yes, it is, and no, you can't have it. I need it."

"For what, exactly? We going to war already?" Deacon glanced around. "No one else seems to have gotten that memo."

Drummer Boy stared a little longer before running off at the sound of Desdemona's voice, leaving the pair alone. Charmer watched the young man step away before rearranging her weapons once more. She seemed to be strategizing… something.

"Wanna fill me in on what's going on?" he asked, in a tone that definitely let her know he was _not_ asking.

Charmer didn't even look up. Her hair fell forward slightly, revealing the scar tracing up her neck. "Sure, once you ask me in a nicer tone."

Oh, she was getting more playful. More open. Deacon usually liked it – until he figured out _why_ she was acting that way. Charmer knew it was the best way to get him to open up a bit – and a great way to stall.

Deacon crossed his arms. "I'm not very good at asking nicely."

"Then learn."

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the crumbling brick post beside them. "Fine. Pretty please, Charmer, won't you tell me why you have ten guns out and thousands of bullets sitting at your feet?"

Charmer smiled in that enigmatic way of hers. She began cleaning her heavily modded 10mm. "Hmm… no."

Now he was pouting. "Why not?"

"Because you'll want to go with me," she said lightly, "and that might make this ten times harder."

He didn't like the sound of that. Finally, he took a long look at what she was doing – prepping weapons, from a combat knife, to a shotgun, to an assault rifle that she hardly ever used, for a fight. A big one. Just like he predicted weeks earlier. Shit. In a firm tone, he told her, "I'm not sitting this one out."

"You are if I say you are."

The anger he always kept so carefully under control spiked. His jaw clenched. "I'm not asking, Charmer, and I don't give a shit what you say about it."

The edge to his voice startled her. Reassembling the 10mm, Charmer blinked, her lips pursed in thought. Then her stance stiffened and she stared Deacon down. "Look. This is how it is. If you don't like it, we don't have to travel together anymore. You always said you felt better on your own, anyway."

He half couldn't believe the words pouring out of her mouth and half wanted to accept this way out, to turn his back on her forever and whatever feelings he was having, to let it all go. It was making things complicated, and he didn't like complicated.

But he was in too deep for that. Deacon already had to live with a lot of regret weighing on his shoulders – he didn't need to add to the pile.

"Things change," he said carefully. Words used to be his best weapon; now, he found that they were sometimes his downfall. He needed to be precise, needed to say nothing more and nothing less than what was enough to go with her. "Besides, if I'm not going, you'll take someone else for backup, and they don't know you like I do."

Her dark brow arched, her gaze piercing. "You think you know me best?" she asked challengingly, roughly, like she was offended he'd even think it.

But Deacon's intuition was strong – that was what got him this far. He _knew_ he knew her best. He was sure of it. "Yeah," he said confidently. "I do."

"What about Preston?" she pushed. He had a feeling she wanted to see how far he'd go, how determined he was. Like it was a test, or maybe a reassurance, or maybe neither of those things. But the sound of Preston's name made Deacon clench his fists. Yeah, he and the Minuteman had buried the hatchet some weeks ago, but Deacon had seen the way Preston looked at Charmer. He'd seen it. He'd heard the way Preston said her name. Her real name. That was something he couldn't forget.

Deacon usually went for subtlety. Right now, he was blunt. "Does Preston know about your brother?"

The question knocked her off guard, and he could read in her eyes that she heard the handful of other questions he could ask. _Does he know about your scars? How you got them? What about your nightmares? Does he know you like I do?_

Charmer gripped the rifle she was cleaning tighter. It seemed she wouldn't answer him, but finally, she admitted, "No. He doesn't."

Deacon nodded. "I'm going. I'll prep." Then he turned heel, headed for his supplies, and didn't look back to see just how pissed she would be.

You couldn't trust anybody, but Deacon trusted that Charmer hadn't told anyone else the things she told him.

* * *

Deacon stared at the woman across from him blankly. "I'm sorry – let's rewind for a sec. You want to kill a _courser?_ As in, an Institute courser, AKA beings who were literally created to kill. That's whatcha wanna do?"

Charmer smiled. It was the same smile Glory wore, probably a smile all goddesses of death and destruction owned, Deacon was beginning to realize. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

He tried to keep up. "All right, let's say you can do it. Problem is, no one ever knows where a courser's gonna be, and once we see them, them somehow just… disappear."

"Yeah," Charmer said. "I know. They teleport."

"… Teleport."

She nodded, as if she was teaching a dumb child. "In and out of the Institute."

Mind reeling, essentially needing to do cartwheels and backflips to keep up with the Olympian pace of this conversation, Deacon scratched at his wig. "How the hell do you know all this? We've been tryna figure it out for years, and you just suddenly _know_?" Not to mention, _he_ didn't even know. And he'd been part of that whole she-bang, so many years ago.

Shoving the thought from his mind, the grimace that wanted to fight its way onto his lips, he refocused on Charmer. He couldn't think of the past. Not now.

Charmer adjusted the bag over her shoulder, weighed down by all the weapons and ammunition inside. They weren't far from HQ, had just left, and were merely headed 'west' according to his partner.

She glanced sidelong at Deacon, seemingly unaware of the new tension lining his every muscle. "Any of you ever venture out into the Glowing Sea, by chance? Find a scientist named Brian Virgil?"

He paused. "Uh, no?"

"Then that's why you didn't figure it out. I found him. Long story short: he worked for the Institute."

Push the thoughts away, Deac. You're a master of not thinking about what you don't want to think about, right? "And we're gonna kill a courser because…?" He let the question hang in the air, trying to connect the dots himself. They were there, disjointed even for him, someone who _knew_ the Institute. But he'd never been the inside guy. Had never been…

Stop, Deac. Stop there.

Charmer continued on, anyway, a smug glint in her eye. "Every courser has its own frequency that connects them to the Institute. It's how they zap in and out."

Deacon paused, nearly tripping over a jutted out piece of rubble, as realization dawned on him. "Holy shit. Des is gonna _flip_."

* * *

There were gunners sitting on their knees, a girl crying for help somewhere to his right, and the courser – _right there_ , right in front of him.

Deacon never thought he'd come face-to-face with a courser and survive.

He also never thought he'd meet a 200-year-old war relic with a fantastic ass and a dark sense of humor to go with his own, so he shouldn't be _that_ surprised.

Deacon kept his weapon trained on the gunners, his eyes flickering between them and the fight going on not ten feet away. He'd seen Charmer fight dozens of times before. There was a fluidity, a grace, that lined her body whenever she engaged an enemy, whenever she brought her fists up or lashed out or shot. It was some ruthless, savage part of her, a thing that inspired fear in most and awe in some. Deacon was part of the latter group, continuously surprised and reverential of this goddess of war. She was _made_ for this.

But so was the courser, and in a more literal sense.

Charmer fought smart. There was a harrowing ledge to their left with a five-story drop and a narrow walkway with few things to shield her from the courser's weapon. To top it off, he was popping stealth boys left and right, disappearing and reappearing in some sort of sequence. At first, Deacon thought to intervene – why wasn't she going for a kill shot? But then he saw the strategy. Charmer was pro with a weapon, but hand-to-hand? She was _gifted_. So she had waited for the courser to use up all his stealth boys before she darted forward for the kill.

Combat knife in hand, she dodged and swiped and punched, balanced, confident. The courser seemed surprised at her sudden onslaught of fury, at the close range fighting he was probably less used to. Who was ever stupid enough to get that close to a courser? But Charmer seized the opportunity, struck the synth with an elbow to the face, another to the gut, before swiftly slashing her knife upwards until it sunk into the courser's head.

"Oh _fuck_ ," one of the gunners at Deacon's feet swore, probably contemplating hurling himself off the platform just to spare himself this woman's wrath. " _Oh, fuck_."

"Shut up, Bobby," the commanding officer said, gruff and dejected. "Just shut up."

After carving the chip out of the courser's head, Charmer briefly showed it off to Deacon – dangling it in the air like a fucking necklace she'd won, heedless of the droplets of blood splattering the floor – before pocketing it. Then she glanced behind her, towards the locked room holding a young woman still calling out for help.

Sauntering up to the gunners, Charmer stared down at them, her face splattered with blood, her eyes still a little crazed. "Any of you wanna tell me why there's a girl locked up in that room?"

The craven one, Bobby, stared hard at his knees. "W-w-we were just gonna –"

"I said shut up, Bobby!" the CO shouted. He sat against the wall, slowly bleeding out from a gunshot to the chest, and stared up at Charmer and Deacon defiantly.

"This one doesn't seem too friendly, boss," Deacon commented blithely. "Incentive?"

They could communicate without words – that's how Deacon knew he was so far gone for her.

Charmer smiled at him; it was neither sweet nor friendly, but dark. And he wasn't afraid of it. "Sure."

Without hesitation, Deacon set his booted foot on the back of one of the gunners near the railing and shoved. The gunner screamed briefly before he went silent, landing several stories down with a _thunk_.

Some of Charmer's ruthlessness was rubbing off on him, that's for sure. And she was right about this op getting… messy, but luckily, Deacon wasn't afraid of messes.

The CO clenched his jaw and turned his head away.

Deacon clucked his tongue. "Hmm, I dunno boss, I'm not sure he got the memo."

This time, Charmer shoved a gunner off the railing herself, leaving him to the same fate as his comrade. All that was left was Bobby and the CO.

The commanding officer stared Charmer down icily. "I know you'll kill me anyway. I won't talk."

Charmer shrugged. "Have it your way. I'm sure the girl can fill us in."

She walked towards the locked door, got her lockpicking set out. In under a minute, she was inside, briefly exchanging words with a frazzled looking young woman. The woman refused help offered to her and began gathering supplies, not giving any sort of explanation, and paused once on her way out to look between Charmer and Deacon. "They sell women," she told them finally, in a low tone. Then she glared at the two remaining men. "Let them suffer."

And so they did.

* * *

Deacon rolled a small silver chain between his fingers as he absently watched Charmer doze off and reflected on their day.

Overall, the op was a success. They'd acquired a courser chip, managed to free a young synth who was going to be sold into sex-slavery by gunners, and even exacted retribution against those very men. Hell, Deacon would be lucky to get that much done in a week, maybe a month, much less a day.

But things were getting uglier. And Charmer was growing more desperate. He could see it, feel it, taste the anxiety in the air whenever she began plotting her next move. Charmer wanted to find her brother, bad. And he could understand that: everyone she ever knew from before was dead, but one person. Family.

And Deacon could make it all easier for her. With just a few words, he could tell her where her brother was, what he was doing now, _who_ he was… Deacon could do that. He could be honest. But then he'd risk losing the life he worked so hard to build, severing the alliances he'd come to enjoy, losing the one person in the entirety of the Commonwealth who mattered at all to him anymore. He would lose all that. All of it.

But if Charmer's quest was successful, and she _did_ manage to get into the Institute… she'd figure it out on her own. She'd know who Deacon used to be, and she'd know that he could have warned her about this all along.

He could lose her either way. He wasn't seeing a third option.

* * *

 **A/N** : What you can expect up next: The slow burn heats up. Majorly.

PLEASE review if you're enjoying this story at all! Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** **A bit more of Deacon's feelings in this one, so I suppose it's inherently angsty, since that man locks his feelings up like a max-security prison. And High Rise is back to give Deacon a hard time about his relationship with our Sole Survivor. Less action in this one. More interaction with others – Glory, Des, Tom, High Rise, Drummer Boy, Preston… More of Deacon's backstory with Barbara (my take on it) and his connection to the Institute. Also: concerned/possessive Deacon. Playful Deacon. Serious Deacon. All aboard emotional rollercoaster Deacon. Yum yum. Oh, and this is definitely T-rated at the end (I could do M, but I figured it might detract from the point of their interaction. I can still consider writing a more M-rated scene in the future, I guess, if there's any desire for it).**

Four

Tinker Tom stared at Charmer like she'd become a literal gold mine. "This…" his gaze shifted towards the chip in his hands, freshly cleaned of blood, as if it were the holy grail. "Damn, woman. This is _big_."

Desdemona had a fierce look about her, a hybrid between a proud mother's smile and a war-hungry glare. If Deacon hadn't known the woman for as long as he had, he might've been a little perturbed. But that was the closest Des ever looked happy. And it was all because of Charmer, of course.

"You killed a courser?" Des asked for the second time, staring first at Charmer, then Deacon, who grinned like there was no tomorrow. As Tinker Tom had said, this was _big_. This was huge. The Railroad, which had been standing on its last legs just weeks ago, had the edge it needed. They could win.

Charmer just shrugged off their disbelief. "I've got a badass looking black leather jacket to prove it."

At this, Des almost smiled. "You took his clothes?"

"And his dignity," Deacon added, slapping a gentle hand on his partner's shoulder. "Should've seen the way she took him down, Des. Like he was nothing."

Desdemona nodded her approval. "Good work, agent. While I would have preferred being briefed on this op before you went," she gave both agents a warning look, "you two have gotten us closer to the Institute than we've ever been in Railroad history."

"That sounds suspiciously like a thank-you," Deacon flashed his white teeth and nudged his partner. "She _never_ says thank you."

Desdemona rolled her eyes. "Like I said, good work. Tom, start decoding that chip. ETA?"

Tom stared down at the tech in his hands and deliberated. "Not sure, man. This thing – this thing is _high_ tech. Gimme a few days to work with her. Most important part is not frying the data."

Des nodded. "Then get to it."

-0-0-

"I'm surprised you haven't disappeared yet," Deacon commented, joining his partner on the rooftop they'd climbed up to see the Prydwen a few days prior. When he hadn't found her in HQ, he had some strange sense he'd see her here.

Charmer was reclined against one of the cement posts, arms crossed loosely over her chest, legs splayed out in front of her. At Deacon's voice, she tensed and shot him a glare. "You know, you really are a spook. And it's not a good idea to sneak up on me."

"Trigger happy? Yeah, I know. I've seen you slaughter, like, twenty people at once."

"Well, don't add yourself to my list," Charmer grumbled. She relaxed once more and watched her partner carefully as he settled in beside her. "What do you mean, you're surprised I haven't disappeared yet?"

Deacon didn't look at her. It was getting harder and harder, especially now. They were _so_ close to getting into the Institute, but everyone knew that only one woman was going in. And that was Charmer.

She'd be leaving soon. And things… things could change. Things _would_ change.

What if she chose her brother, the Father of the Institute, over the Railroad?

Over _him?_

He always knew that was part of the risk. In the beginning, it hadn't needled at him so much. Now it was one of many things keeping him awake at night.

Instead of voicing all his fears, Deacon flashed a smile. "Normally after we complete a few ops, you run off for a few days or weeks," he pointed out. "Can't stand to be around my devilishly good looks for too long? Gets under your skin, huh?"

Charmer surprised him with a sharp smile. "Something like that."

They drifted into a comfortable silence. Charmer settled into the post some more, her shoulder brushing against Deacon's. Sometimes, he thought she did it on purpose. Now, he _knew_.

It hurt. She told him there were other ways to live, that he couldn't go on trusting no one forever, and she'd been right. But Deacon was twice her age and old habits die hard and big things were hanging just around the corner, things that could take her from him.

"The woman you lost," Charmer broke the silence, her voice soft, soothing, yet inquisitive. "She was your wife?"

Deacon's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Normally, he'd just laugh it off, tell her he'd been lying. Some elaborate trick. But this was Charmer. He knew her better than anyone else.

Scratching the back of his neck, swallowing the cotton-ball dryness in his mouth and fighting the urge to get up and run away, Deacon sighed. "Yeah. She was."

"What happened to her?"

Images filtered through his mind, a montage of gore, horror, loss. Deacon could still hear her crying out for help, his Barbara. Crying to _him_ for help.

He turned his face away from Charmer; not even the sunglasses could hide his pain. "She was murdered." Murdered seemed like too nice of a word. Slaughtered. Betrayed. She was betrayed, by her devoted and loving husband. He had let her die. They had made him let her die. It was his fault.

"I… I'm sorry," Charmer grit out, sadness imbued in her tone. He couldn't look at her, but he could hear her run her fingers through her hair in frustration. Steeling himself, he turned towards her.

"It was twenty years ago," he said, as if it were mere fact and by that fact alone, it couldn't bother him anymore. Another lie.

Charmer shrugged it off. "I was tortured over two hundred years ago and it still hurts. Some things never fade."

He didn't say anything, couldn't think of anything to say, because she was right. Then he felt her rest her head on his shoulder, bringing him back to the day she'd slept on his chest, and he let her. Brought up his arm to wrap around her waist and pull her closer. Things were only going to get worse, and they might not get many more chances. He might lose her for good.

"If I go into the Institute," Charmer nearly whispered, her head pressed into his chest. "I might not come back."

His throat felt tight. "I know."

"You'll need a new partner."

Shaking his head, he let out a grim chuckle. "Nah, that was a one-time thing, boss. I'm a monogamous kinda guy. Can't go around getting a new partner every time one infiltrates a huge organization of dickheads."

Charmer laughed, but she seemed to understand his underlying meaning. "I'll try to make it back. I promise."

"You'd better. Or I'll have to find you myself."

-0-0-

"We're gonna need a _lot_ of space," Tinker Tom explained, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Like, a shit-ton. We've gotta build a platform, a relay, a control system, and a damn big generator to keep it all running."

He spoke in a warning tone, as if building such a thing might prove to be too hard for the secret organization that was barely standing on its last limbs. But Desdemona was unfazed. She took a long drag of her cigarette and nodded. "We'll find a place."

"And the parts?" Tinker Tom went on, becoming a little frantic in the midst of his excitement. "Shit, we're gonna need _shipments_ of steel, wires, gears, an old control system from a base— "

"Write out a list," Desdemona said calmly, "and we'll get it for you. Just be ready."

The alpha turned and headed back towards her office in the crypt, leaving Tom staring at Drummer Boy, Charmer, and Deacon. Deacon couldn't control his smirk – Tom was lit up like a tree on Christmas, or so he could imagine. It was the happiest he'd ever seen the paranoid man in the twenty-odd years they'd worked together.

After spitballing a few location choices with the master engineer, Charmer left the man to play with his toys and tried to disappear. Try being the operative word. Deacon would follow her anywhere.

Something had been off with her since they'd spoken up on that rooftop days ago. Something that made her distance herself from Deacon, disappear at strange times, go out on ops alone.

Deacon was already nauseous with images of Charmer in the Institute, re-meeting her brother, possibly becoming one with the enemy. Father was _family_ to her – how could she not stay with him? How could she ever choose anything else over family?

So he followed her as she slipped out of HQ and into the moonless night of the Commonwealth, edging around corners and blending into shadows like the master spy that he was. To her credit, Charmer was _always_ more perceptive than the average joe. She'd stop here and there, glance over her shoulder at intermittent times, as if expecting to see someone trailing her, and would occasionally dance out of his sight. But he could keep up. So far, he could keep up.

When he finally realized where she was going, his heart dropped to his toes. It felt like he was dangling at the edge of Trinity Tower, he was so sick.

Charmer was headed to Goodneighbor.

Letting her fade from sight as she passed through the massive gates, Deacon slipped into a nearby alleyway and leaned against the ancient brick, sucking in a silent breath. Sure, he'd already been invading her privacy just by following her… but leaving her to hang around the likes of Hancock, having already seen the aftermath of the pair being alone together once before, made him nauseous.

So he swapped clothes, pulled a hat down over his smooth head, and sauntered in to the criminal city of the Commonwealth.

-0-0-

Of all the things Deacon pretended to be, a member of the Neighborhood Watch was the easiest. All he had to do was scowl, look like an old-school mobster-wannabe, make nasty remarks to the others on Watch, and look altogether suspicious of any poor soul that happened to cross paths with him. A perfect disguise, an easy mold to fit into.

Before Charmer rose from the vault like a fucking phoenix however many months prior, this sort of thing would've made Deacon giddy with satisfaction. Every glance, every dismissive look he earned from those he was hiding in plain sight from, would have made the master spy swell with pride. It was the only sort of benign sentiment he had allowed himself, all those years after the incident at University Point. It was the only sort of sentiment he thought he deserved to take anything from, now that he'd been helping the Railroad for some twenty-odd years… or so he tried to tell himself, at least. And then there was Charmer.

Deacon already knew how powerful one person could be in changing the trajectory of his life. After what happened with Barbara… he was a changed man. A different man altogether. A sad patchwork places and things he could change into, pretend to be for a while. The face changes stopped being about hiding from the Institute, instead becoming a way to distance himself from his ugly past, the macabre images painted behind his eyes. It had worked, for a while. He could tell himself he _was_ a different man. The face in the mirror had been swapped out so many times since he'd lived at University Point that he couldn't even remember what the man who had preceded Deacon had looked like. Things got easier, incrementally, over time. But Charmer… Charmer had crashed into his life, and things started to change, again.

After watching his partner slip into the mayor's mansion, Deacon had to ignore the pit hollowing out his stomach and count balconies until he found the right one. Scaling the wall would've been easier for a younger version of himself; as it was, Deacon's knees were aching fiercely, protesting against his determination to hoist himself up onto the second story balcony, and then again with the third.

Settling himself back against the wall of the ancient building, Deacon glanced at the pair of French doors beside him, one cracked open ever so slightly in order to let some of the Wasteland's cooling night air inside, and to let some tendrils of smoke from whatever drug-fueled haze Hancock was in slip out into the already polluted night.

A door opened within the room just as Deacon felt the old brick of the building bite into his spine. Biting the inside of his cheek, he evened out his breath and strained to listen.

"Nora," Hancock drawled in his raspy voice, surprise coloring the two simple syllables of her name. Deacon bit down harder, ignored the sharp metallic tang of blood trickling into his mouth. _Nora_. "We heading out on another adventure already?"

The small chuckle from Charmer vibrated all the way to Deacon's core. "No, old man," she said playfully. "Just came by to talk."

There was a moment of silence before Deacon heard the sound of a couch cushion depress as he assumed Charmer seated herself in the mayor's quarters. She sighed, and it was only then he realized how exhausted his partner must be. She wasn't sleeping much, lately. Was always moving, always heading towards that fixed point he knew wasn't so far off in the future anymore.

"I'd offer you something," Hancock finally said, amusedly, "but after our first and last experiment together, I was given some… incentive not to."

Deacon's already knotted stomach dipped to his toes. Ugh. Leave it to fucking Hancock to let the cat outta the bag. He wished, desperately, that he could read Charmer's face right now, could see if she was putting the pieces together, if she was angry or amused or _anything_.

"So _that's_ what happened." By her tone alone, he couldn't get anything, except that Deacon's bloodied and bruised hand so many weeks ago still nagged at her. "I guess I should have known."

"Didn't think lover-boy had it in him?"

"Not that," Charmer said with a clear smile, but she didn't elucidate further.

There was probably something to be said about eavesdropping on your partner – in fact, there was probably _much_ to be said about it. But Deacon was still a shameless liar, and was he wasn't about to change, now. Despite his mind urging him, softly, to leave her be, now that he knew Hancock wasn't going to offer up his collection of drugs again.

Deacon remained firmly planted against the brick wall, despite his better judgement, which made the occasional visit to his consciousness. He told himself it was to make sure his partner would get home okay. He told himself that calling HQ Charmer's 'home' made sense.

"I came to let you know I might disappear for a while, sometime within the next few weeks," Charmer finally said, but she sounded distant. Like her thoughts were elsewhere. "Just wanted to give you a heads up."

There was another pause as Hancock absorbed this information. "Yeah? That why you look so goddamn gloomy?" He was clearly trying to remain playful, to keep the concern from his voice. "Going on a little trip somewhere?"

There was a huff, or a sigh, before Charmer admitted, "I might not come back." Before Hancock could interject anything, she rushed on to add, "So I thought I'd just stop by. Give you a heads up in case anyone comes looking for me, and let you know that the settlements I established with Preston are open to any of your people, any time. _As long_ as they don't try to kill anyone, that is."

Hancock barked with laughter. "Hard to teach an old dog new tricks, Nora, but I hear you, and I appreciate the offer. And the heads up."

Deacon stared down at his hands as he heard Charmer shuffle to her feet.

"On your way already?" the old ghoul asked.

"If I stay any longer, you might receive another punch to the face," Charmer noted slyly, a laugh on her lips.

Deacon froze. Did she know? Did she realize he was right outside the balcony, listening to every word they said?

Fuck.

Hancock seemed to rise to his feet as well. "We wouldn't want that. Gotta stay handsome for the pretty dames who slink into the Third Rail every blue moon."

Charmer laughed again. "If I don't see you… I hope you take care, Hancock." And then her booted feet made their way out of the room, but not before being stopped by the mayor one last time.

"Nora."

Deacon imagined her lingering in the doorway. "Yes?"

"For lover-boy's sake… I hope you come back."

He felt nauseous. Like his skin was crawling off his body, like he should be there in the room with her, rather than Hancock.

For the first time since she rose from the vault so long ago, Deacon realized that losing Charmer had always been inevitable. It hit him in the stomach like a sucker-punch.

A moment passed before Charmer's soft voice could be heard adding, "Me too, Hancock. Me too…"

-0-0-

He was following her lean, dark shape back to HQ minutes later, dread filling his body with every step he took.

At one point, whether he was so distracted with his inner turmoil, or she was getting better than he realized, he lost sight of her. He lost sight of her and he felt _afraid_. Terrified. Charmer wasn't there anymore, cutting across old abandoned alleyways, and he felt alone.

It'd been years since he felt so alone…

"No moon, tonight," a soft voice said, close to his ear.

Deacon's hand didn't even instinctively reach for his weapon. His body already knew it was Charmer there, with him.

Turning to face her, just barely making out her sharp green gaze in the darkness hardly a foot away from him, he managed a casual, "Hey there, boss. Fancy running into you, here." If there was a slight tremor to his tone, Charmer pretended not to notice.

Instead, she gave him a careful smile. "I promised you I wouldn't mess around with Hancock's… _hobby_ … again," she said, as if he hadn't spoken. "I keep my promises, Deacon."

 _I'll try to make it back to you_ , she had said, just days ago, his arm wrapped tight around her. _I promise_.

In that moment, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Deacon swallowed thickly. His smile was watery, at best. "I hear you, boss." Because he had nothing else to say. There were some promises people couldn't keep, no matter what they intended. There were some things that were simply inevitable.

The pair was at a standstill. Her staring at him with unreadable eyes, him staring back, sunglasses hiding his every emotion.

When she began heading back towards HQ, he followed her again, this time right by her side. His hand slipped down to grab hers, tightly, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she gripped him right back, squeezed.

And they walked like that, hands locked together, back to the old crypt like nothing had happened.

-0-0-

Of course, he wasn't surprised when he woke the next day and Charmer was gone. Again. The mattress next to his had clearly been abandoned sometime early in the morning; it was cold to the touch, a light sprinkle of dust settled on it, as if the crypt itself was trying to reassert its presence, its purpose, over the agents that had hijacked it.

Deacon had to find a jacket to shrug into to fight off the cold. Afterwards, his eyes roamed over the agents in HQ, hoping to see a petite figure, a head of black hair, a wide smile for Tom or a secretive grin for Glory. Instead, he locked eyes with Drummer Boy, who gave Deacon a sad shrug.

"Said she had some business to take care of," was all the kid supplied, emanating a sense of loss, himself. "Took Glory with her."

Ah. That explained the gloomy look on the young man's face. Drummer Boy was always beside himself whenever the only other heavy left HQ. For a moment, Deacon realized he had, in some sense, become more similar to the younger agent. Both men waiting for their angels of death to return home to them, anxious when they weren't around.

A defeated sigh escaped his lips.

"Wanna check in on Ticonderoga with me?" Deacon finally asked the younger agent, watching with some amusement as the kid perked up a bit.

"Really?" Drummer Boy's eyes were as wide as the dirty ceramic plates littered over HQ's countertops. "You mean – you'll take me?"

Poor kid was never taken too seriously – just an errand boy for Des, really. Probably why Glory almost never looked twice at him. Deacon wasn't a bleeding heart – he really wasn't – but if he could make someone's life easier, then he would. Maybe give the poor guy a chance with the intimidating synth.

So he flashed Drummer Boy a bright smile. "Gotta learn the tricks of the trade sometime, right?"

And if it distracted them both from where those two women were at, all the better.

-0-0-

As soon as he saw the pitying look in High Rise's dark gaze, Deacon regretted taking Drummer Boy out at all. It was just a general check-in – ensure that the safe house's operations were running smoothly, there weren't any synths that had stayed too long, that they had all the proper supplies and weapons. Really, it should have taken ten, fifteen minutes tops.

Instead, his good ole pal High Rise decided to crack open a couple of beers and hand one off to an eager Drummer Boy.

"You two wanna sit for a moment?" He'd only asked _after_ opening the beers. High Rise had known Deacon for a long time – too long. Had known the master spy would try to evade any sort of conversation that got too close to 'real' territory.

And Deacon didn't have the heart to say no to Drummer Boy's puppy-eyed face. God. He was becoming such a schmuck. A fucking schmuck.

Taking a pull of his beer, which was certainly one too many centuries past its intended drinking date, Deacon threw himself on an old beat up couch bearing several suspicious stains and grinned at High Rise, if only to throw the man off his scent. "So what calls for the occasion?" He lifted the beer in a mock-cheer. "Getting hitched or something?"

High Rise took a swig of his own drink before setting it on a nearby table. The mid-afternoon sun burned bright and high in the sky over the man's shoulder, and Deacon was glad for his sunglasses for more than one reason.

"Or something," High Rise replied obscurely, before nodding at Drummer Boy. "You're finally getting trained to take the old man's place?"

Deacon rolled his eyes at the old man jab. God, people needed to stop reminding him.

Drummer Boy, on the other hand, looked like a deer caught in headlights. "Uh, no – no, no, nothing like that. No one could replace Deacon. He's, like, a _legend_."

Another grin formed on Deacon's lips. At least everyone knew _that_. "Now I _will_ drink to that," he said, laughing at the kid's burning red cheeks. To High Rise, he said, "We just thought the kid could use some more field work. As you oh so _kindly_ pointed out, this _old man_ is gonna die someday."

Drummer Boy looked perturbed at the thought while High Rise merely rolled his eyes. "I'd say you have at least a few years left in you. By the way, where's your partner at?"

And there it was. The reason for the pitying look. The beers. The mock-conversation. High Rise couldn't even make it to ten minutes before bringing her up.

While Deacon was busy glaring at his old friend, Drummer Boy decided to take on the responsibility of answering. "She and Glory went out. Said there was some business to take care of, but didn't say what kind."

High Rise nodded thoughtfully. "Quite a pair, those two. Don't you think?"

Drummer Boy nodded along keenly. "Yeah, they are. Honestly… they scare me, sometimes. D'ya know Glory named her mini-gun _Karma?_ " He peered around at the other two men, as if anyone would be at all surprised that Glory named her beloved mini-gun. But Deacon could practically see the hearts in the young man's eyes, the way he worshipped the ground the woman walked on. "She's… she's sure something."

"Glory is one of the best we've ever had," High Rise agreed, taking another thoughtful sip of his beer. Then he stared over at Deacon, an almost challenging look in his eyes. "And Charmer – damn, that woman is impressive. Bet she keeps you busy, Deac."

"Yep, busy as a bee," Deacon agreed lightly, rolling his eyes.

High Rise's stare did not waver. "Heard about the courser she took down."

Ah, so it was going to be like that, then. A game of back and forth. Settling into the couch, Deacon gave a lazy smile. "Yeah, I watched her kick him right off the top of Trinity Tower. The _lungs_ on that one – heard him scream all the way down."

High Rise grinned knowingly, catching the lie. "Heard about the Glowing Sea, too."

"She came back looking like the nastiest ghoul I've ever seen. Not sure she'll ever recover."

" _And_ she's the General of the Minutemen. Heard she and Preston Garvey set up at least a dozen settlements that we can place some of our packages in, now."

"Even got Boy Scout to settle his grudge against me. Sure, it was the worst arm wrestling tournament of my life, but I've got bragging rights, now."

"And now the Institute?" High Rise said pointedly. "The relay? I'd say you two are a fucking power couple."

Deacon's mouth went dry. He snapped it closed, and although his sunglasses were hiding his eyes, he sent the darkest glower he could muster at High Rise. "Not sure who you've been gossiping with, but you've got the wrong information. Definitely _not_ a couple."

High Rise chuckled and Drummer Boy gulped down more of his beer, likely wishing he was anywhere but in Ticonderoga's main living space at the moment. "My bad. Guess I got the details wrong."

"I guess you did. Speaking of details, where _do_ you hear all this from?" Deacon's white teeth flashed a sharp smile. "That way I can be sure to correct your source."

Drummer Boy choked on a sip, across the way, where he had settled into a wing-backed chair. Finally, Deacon really looked at the kid – he'd have to be blind, or at least wearing darker sunglasses than he currently was, to miss the way Drummer Boy's face, all the way up to his ears, turned the deepest shade of crimson Deacon had ever seen.

"I, uh. I, um, keep all the safehouses apprised of Charmer's operations," Drummer Boy sputtered out, careful not to meet Deacon's hard gaze. "Y'know – so everyone knows how much she contributes. There were a few people at the beginning, who were, uh, skeptical of her becoming a heavy so quickly…" He trailed off, daring to peek up at the master spy, before dropping his gaze back to his hands immediately.

Deacon was at a loss for what to say. _Drummer Boy_ was making people think he and Charmer were a fucking couple? Are you fucking kidding? And aside from that – Des's compartmentalization scheme was fucked, if everyone knew about those little details.

 _Fuck_.

Seeing Deacon's body coil up with anger, High Rise finally decided to intervene. "Hey, you can't blame the kid, Deac. Besides, we were all thinking it. Not his fault if he was the first to… imply it."

He wasn't sure when he'd gotten to his feet, but Deacon was tempted to pace. But he wasn't the kind of man to pace. Pacing was just another way of showing people how bothered you were, and Deacon didn't do shit like that. He didn't slip up. He didn't show anyone what was _really_ underneath all the face-swaps and sunglasses and getups.

So he stood, frozen, and kept his hands very carefully, very purposefully loose at his sides. Abandoning his beer, he forced himself to shrug lightly, carelessly, and smiled again, as if he could possibly be amused at the entire ordeal.

As if having everyone know that Deacon, the legendary Railroad agent, had it bad for his partner. God, the _stares_ he was going to get, when she went into the Institute, when she didn't come back…

"Y'know what," he said, barely noticing that Drummer Boy was trembling in his seat at this point. "S'all good. Mistakes happen, right?"

And then he headed for the elevator and punched the button for the bottom floor a bit harder than necessary.

-0-0-

The day had been long after he left Ticonderoga safehouse. Deacon stopped by Bunker Hill to load up on some supplies he'd been getting low on, haggled with the vendor for at least an hour, took out the odd raider here and there that was getting too close to HQ, and finally unloaded everything inside the crypt so he could organize his packs and create a new inventory of his supplies.

Because he could _not_ think about how the agents around him apparently thought that he and Charmer were together. Romantically. A couple. That they had probably been thinking that for some time already, due to Drummer Boy's big mouth – or rather, his very liberal dead-drop updates – and probably due to the fact that he and Charmer were basically glued together at the hip, anyway. When she was here. And when she wasn't here, he was always moping about, trying to keep as busy as possible…

Groaning in annoyance, Deacon tossed his completed inventory list on his mattress and scratched at his black wig.

How did he not _notice_?

Because he couldn't dwell on it, lest he jump up and run away from the entire ordeal, Deacon then decided he ought to shove his nose in a book and just read. Snatching up his weathered copy of _Swan's Way_ a bit rougher than he should, he settled back into the cool stone of the crypt and tried to focus on the words in front of him.

Until he heard Glory's pretty laugh echo in the main chamber of the crypt outside, and Charmer's light chuckle follow.

"You've _got_ to show me how you do that," Glory was in the midst of saying. "I always thought knives were for sissies, but _damn_ girl. You know how to work one."

Charmer laughed again. "Only if you show me how to use… _karma_." She said the mini-gun's name with a bark of laughter, further pulling Deacon away from being able to have _any_ focus on his novel.

Fucking fuck.

"Sure thing," Glory replied easily. There was a pause before she asked, "Hey, anyone see Deacon around? I've _got_ to tell him what Charmer did."

Muscles coiling up, Deacon debated the merits of slipping out the back entrance to HQ as he heard a few agents mutter his whereabouts. He only had about ten seconds to decide.

So before the pair of women could see him, he grabbed his jacket, shoved to his feet, and slipped out the escape pipe without a single glance back.

-0-0-

When he returned, sometime around four in the morning, Charmer was half-awake on her designated mattress, bleary green eyes staring down into _Swan's Way_ absently.

He'd chosen to enter through the back entrance to avoid the stares of the other agents, but he could only evade the issue for so long. Especially now that Charmer's eyes snapped up to him when he pulled the back door shut, metal clanging on metal in a low echo through the small passageway, magnetic locks sliding into place.

"Where've you been?" she asked quietly, careful not to wake a trio of agents sleeping on the other side of the wall.

Deacon sighed when he saw them. Ugh. This place needed more privacy.

Shrugging out of his jacket, the master spy gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just out and about. Y'know the deal."

She _didn't_ know the deal, and that was the whole problem. Or maybe she did. And that would be a problem, too.

Charmer was always more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

"Saw you slip out the escape tunnel earlier," she commented off-handedly, returning her gaze to the book. "Seemed like you might be avoiding me. Unless there's a reason you don't want Glory to see you."

Her voice was a perfect hybrid of casual and questioning. Anyone else would've felt the need to defend themselves right away, to reassure, to explain. Hell, Deacon was half-tempted to do all three of those things. But he kept his mouth shut a moment longer before grinning at her.

"Tryin' to say you missed me, boss?"

Tired green eyes blinked up at him, unreadable. "If I ever told you I missed you, you'd run away with your tail between your legs." Then she gave a false smile of her own. "So no."

There she went again, always saying things that rang too close to home. Showing Deacon how much of a fucking coward he was, running away from what she was trying to give him, what she could offer.

He was so tired. And he despised being predictable. Loathed it beyond measure. Loathed that she was right. He ran away from her too much. He took her for granted, and she'd be gone soon. So far out of his reach.

And if the others already thought they were a couple, what did it hurt, really?

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. "And if I didn't run away?" he asked, his tone sharp and playful and deadly serious, all at once. "Would you tell me you missed me, then?"

They locked gazes, despite the sunglasses, and the dusty old air of the crypt thickened between them.

Charmer stared up at him challengingly, the light from the lantern beside her mattress casting an odd halo over her black-as-night hair. She waited – one beat, two – before she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and nodded slowly. "Yes," she said simply, candidly. "I would."

The breath in his lungs stilled. They had been edging along this territory for so long now, Deacon didn't know what to do. Part of him still wanted to run. To hide away from himself, from her, and be the legendary agent everyone thought of him as. But the other part of him knew that Charmer was going to leave soon, one way or another. And he only had so much time.

"Well, I'm not running away, am I?" He almost didn't recognize his own voice. Bereft of nonchalance, any pretense, any modicum of the version of Deacon that everyone knew to be happy-go-lucky and without a care. Instead, his tone had deepened. He sounded more like the version of himself that had cried out to a bleeding Charmer in an old store, after a supermutant had blasted a hole in her.

From the mattress, Charmer watched him carefully, her own expression cut off from him. "Maybe not now. In an hour, you would. A day."

He couldn't argue with that. "Maybe," he allowed. "But I always come back. I _came_ back."

"For now."

He couldn't stand the accusation in her tone. "You're the one I'm worried won't come back."

Something in her eyes thawed. She looked at him softer, now, the lamplight making her eyes impossibly greener. "I promised you I would."

He hated the idea of using her words against her, but he couldn't help but grind out, " _For now_."

"Whatever happens in the Institute, Deacon," Charmer started carefully, as if the topic itself would send him sprinting for the hills, "it's not going to change things. You're still my partner."

But he already knew what would happen, once she was in the Institute. The things she would see. Would know.

Still, for a little while longer, he could pretend, right?

"You'll miss me?"

"I will. You know I will."

He opened his mouth to say something – _anything_ , really – but was interrupted by a panting Drummer Boy, who couldn't quite look Deacon in the eyes. "Ah – Deacon," the boy sputtered, glancing between Charmer and the master spy, oblivious to the tension in the air. "PAM said she was looking for you."

The moment was shattered, just like that. He glanced back towards Charmer to find her pretending to read _Swan's Way_ again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth but her eyes steadfastly on the book. He stared at her several moments longer, willing her to look up, to acknowledge him and the conversation they just had, but she wouldn't.

"Fine," he said at last to Drummer Boy, dismissing the young man. Turning on his heel, he headed for Des's office, away from the only place he ever really wanted to be anymore.

-0-0-

The sunglasses were endlessly useful. For starters, the Wasteland sun was _relentless_. So his eyes were guaranteed to be damn good, since he never had to strain them for a damn thing when he was wandering the Commonwealth. Then there was the simple fact that they hid his eyes, which worked out well for two main reasons: number one being that, even though he could swap faces, he could never change his eyes (though it wasn't as if he hadn't _asked_ ), and number two being that, before taking up the omnipresent accessory and owning it like the devilishly handsome badass that he was, his eyes always gave him away when he was in a tight spot. Something Barbara used to comment on.

Today, Deacon was thankful that they covered the bags under his eyes that he could _feel_ – he hadn't even needed to look in a mirror to know they were there – which further saved him from any questioning or suspicious stares from HQ's agents, who were already apparently questioning and suspicious of him and Charmer.

Since their tense conversation the night before and his subsequent meeting with PAM, Deacon hadn't slept. Hadn't even bothered to try. It would've been too obvious if he slept anywhere other than at Charmer's side, since he'd been doing that for months now. And he _couldn't_ go sleep next to her. His thoughts were too scattered, his desires too intense. If he would have returned to her at all during the night… honestly, he wasn't quite sure what he would have done.

So he took down the location of the control system PAM wanted him and Charmer to secure and decided to spend the following six hours securing some form of transport for the huge system. Ultimately, he'd had to turn to the Minutemen, who admittedly had far more people and resources than the Railroad did, even during their best year. Quite simply, the Minutemen were the only faction capable of handling the transport of such a massive piece of technology in any sort of discreet manner.

Or so Deacon hoped. It was wrong – he knew it was wrong, because it _felt_ wrong – but he was hoping to use Garvey's soft spot for his General to the Railroad's advantage. If Charmer herself asked for a discreet convoy (and Garvey didn't have to know that it was Deacon, and not their General asking), then Garvey would whole-heartedly throw himself into the task and make sure it was done properly. No one would be the wiser, other than certain members of the Railroad and certain members of the Minutemen.

It was a decent plan. The only hitch was that he needed to see, and interact with, Charmer in order to initiate the plan whatsoever.

Determined to prove her wrong, he hadn't left HQ at all through the early morning. Instead, he had scrawled out a note in Charmer's handwriting and sent a page off to the Castle. As anxious as he was for his relic to wake up and join the realm of the living, he wasn't going to let her entertain the thought that he was running from her again. Not again.

There was so little time left, and you couldn't trust anyone, but Deacon had begun to trust Charmer to some extent, and he was fucked. So fucked.

"Heard we got an assignment from PAM," the woman herself said, suddenly appearing near his elbow. Shit, when had she learned to be such a sneak?

"Yup," Deacon said, popping the 'p'. He loosened his tense shoulders, glanced over at his partner to try to scrutinize her thoughts, but she stared back at him with unreadable eyes. "She give you the details?"

Charmer nodded. "Control system that would work for Tom's relay back in Fort Hagen. Mentioned something about needing to be careful about clipping the wires, though. And that you were working on setting up some way to transport it to a secret location."

"Already set that part up," Deacon said easily. "Got your boy Garvey to help us out – we'll secure the area and radio him and his team. They'll head in to help us move it on over to Bedford Station – Tom said it was the best location, and the place is infested with ghouls, anyway, so no one should drop by unexpectedly – and then we'll leave Tom to it."

For several long, quiet moments, Charmer just stared at Deacon. Her eyes flitted over his face, edged along the frames of his sunglasses, but what she was searching for, he wasn't sure.

"So it begins," she finally said, an ominous undertone to her voice.

He couldn't keep the frown off his face. "So it does."

-0-0-

Deacon glanced at Charmer wearily. The way she looked at Fort Hagen, it was almost like…

"You been here before, boss?"

Charmer's gaze slowly slid from assessing the Fort's obviously recent defense measures towards Deacon's covered eyes. "Yeah. Briefly."

One-worded answers weren't necessarily his partner's type. "Care to elaborate?"

"No?"

Deacon rolled his eyes. "This where you and Glory went the other day? Y'know, you could've given me a heads up. Had to keep an eye on a bummed-out Drummer Boy the _entire_ afternoon, in case you didn't notice. Wasn't sure if he'd go running off after you two or not."

Charmer shot him a faux-sympathetic look. "Oh jeez, it must be _so terrible_ to spend time with a kid who worships the ground you walk on, Deac." She rolled her eyes. "Really. It's not like the kid can't mention you without adding the word _legendary_ into his sentence, somewhere, literally every single time. _What a drag_."

"Sarcasm noted. Hint received."

"Are you sure? I could keep going."

Deacon grinned. "As entertaining as that would be…" he nodded at the Fort. "If you and Glory cleared it the other day, why're there more turrets up?"

The frown marring Charmer's lips was indecipherable to him. She assessed Fort Hagen again, eyes narrowed. "Glory and I didn't clear this. We were… it doesn't matter. I was here a couple months ago. Had to find someone."

The fact that Deacon knew literally nothing about her being here or who she had to find disturbed him. Months ago? Hadn't his tourists been keeping an eye out for her, then? Why didn't he know about this?

He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah?" Casual tone. Charmer always clamped shut when she thought you really wanted to know something. "And who was that?"

When she looked at Deacon head-on, he wondered if maybe she was tired of keeping secrets from him anymore. "A man named Kellogg. He's the one who took my brother. To the Institute."

 _Kellogg_. He should have known. Kellogg had been on his DO NOT APPROACH list. Kellogg, after all, had been the one to recruit Deacon, when Deacon was just a young man part of a gang in a life that was worlds apart from the one he lived now. Kellogg had been the one to start Deacon on his dark and twisted path.

He didn't realize how stiff he'd gone until he felt Charmer's hand grasp his forearm, her green eyes staring deeply into his, past the sunglasses and all the veneer. "What? What is it?"

But some secrets were better kept, at least for now. "Nothing. Just wondering why you didn't tell me, s'all."

Charmer smiled up at him softly, making his knees turn to jelly. "Probably for the same reason why you won't tell me what's wrong."

She gave his forearm an affectionate squeeze before turning on her heel, walking straight into the unknown threat lurking within Fort Hagen.

-0-0-

"You radio Preston yet?"

Charmer was twirling around absentmindedly in an office chair just inside the main entrance of the Fort, blood splattered on her combat vest and face, looking for all the world like some hilariously macabre fusion of child and killer. Deacon would've found the image more amusing, had she not become more and more reckless…

She glanced up at him, waiting for an answer, before twirling around again, her short black hair fanning out around her head.

"I did," Deacon finally replied, not taking his eyes off her lithe legs, playfully sprawled out every time she rotated. "Maybe _he_ can convince you how fucking stupid it is to rush into a _fort_ filled with _ammo_ and _guns_ – oh, and those fucking _bombs_ – without consulting anyone on your game plan. Since I obviously wasn't compelling enough for you."

Charmer paused her spinning to give him a fake pout. "Awe. You think you aren't compelling enough for me?" She smiled slyly at him, her eyes twinkling in delight. "That's cute."

Deacon pressed his lips together tightly. She was flirting with him? _Now?_

Why did his heart have to feel like a goddamn hummingbird flickering around in his chest?

"'Sides," she continued. "I had it handled. You saw."

"What I _saw_ was you being reckless – "

Charmer snorted. "Please. I had it covered, Deac." Planting her feet firmly on the ground to keep from going another rotation on her stupid office chair, she stared up at Deacon innocently. "You worry too much."

"You _like_ it when I worry."

She grinned. "Maybe I do."

A heavy knock at the double doors in the lobby interrupted any thought Deacon could have on that matter. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, sparing his Angel of Death one last look before heading over to open the locked doors.

"Took you long enough," was all Deacon said when Boy Scout's face appeared in the doorway, a line of eight Minutemen behind him, all shuffling about awkwardly in their silly little getups.

Garvey scowled darkly at the master spy. "It's been ten minutes, Deacon."

"Yeah. Ten _minutes_. Do you know what could've happened in ten minutes?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Garvey cocked a dark brow. "I don't know – I think ten minutes was enough for you to leave me at the hands of three deathclaws-"

"Okay, boys," Charmer said, appearing at Deacon's side with an appraising look. "I thought you two already kissed and made up?"

Still glowering at Deacon, Garvey grumbled out, "Yes, General."

Ooh. Deacon honestly derived an endless amount of fun from pissing the Boy Scout off. And now with his General here? Garvey couldn't do a damn thing about it. He grinned to himself as Charmer led the group of men down to the control panel.

While he sat back and watched the Minutemen carefully clip the wires off the system and prepare to load it up on a push-cart, he remarked, offhandedly, "So, Garvey. You see your General in action much, lately?"

Of course, the question had some unintended innuendo, but Deacon shook it out of his head and pretended he didn't notice the blush that crept across Preston's dark skin.

"Why?" Boy Scout asked suspiciously, clearly thinking that Deacon was just trying to fuck with him again. He wasn't wrong, necessarily.

Shrugging, and ignoring the jab in the ribs from Charmer herself, Deacon flashed his white teeth at the Minuteman innocuously. "Shoulda seen her storm in here. Didn't even wait for backup, didn't sort out a game plan with me… Just waltzed right in like she's made of steel. It was a fucking _bloodbath_. Seriously. I think there's still some blood dripping from the ceiling." He watched as the Minuteman's eyes grew impressively wider and wider. "Yeah, that was my reaction. Seems like she forgot about the laser-blast she took, right about…" he poked Charmer in the stomach, right where her long-healed scar would be, "here."

Charmer squirmed away from him with a fierce glare.

"General," Garvey said tightly, having the exact reaction Deacon _knew_ he would have. His eyes narrowed on Charmer, who was trying her best to look as innocent as possible – a true feat, for her, especially with the blood still drying in freckles on her face. "Please tell me Deacon's just making up his regular bullshit."

Ouch, but the man's logic was understandable.

Charmer's faux-innocent expression morphed into another glower, the full force of which she settled on Deacon. "Yep. You know Deacon. Always trying to stir up trouble."

Deacon placed his hand over his heart. "You wound me, milady."

But he didn't miss the look Garvey threw at his General as he ordered his men to get moving, hoping it was enough for the Boy Scout to knock some sense into the woman. You couldn't trust anyone, but you could certainly trust that Garvey adored his General too much to lose her to her own recklessness.

-0-0-

Deacon was growing worried that Charmer's expression had become a permanent scowl. After the Minutemen left with the control panel, headed out for Bedford Station, she rounded on him with the fiercest look he'd seen on her.

"What the _hell_ did you do that for?"

Deacon brought his hands up and grinned. "Do _what_ for?"

"You _know_ what. You put it in Preston's head that he needs to keep an eye on me, now. He said as much, on his way out, you moron."

Wait, he did? Definitely _not_ what he was going for… More like, he was hoping Garvey-boy would say something along the lines of _General, just listen to Deacon._ He _knows best. He_ always _knows what's best._

Was that really too much to hope for?

Deacon lowered his hands and crossed the main lobby of the fort to grab his jacket and pack. "Garvey knows that's unnecessary, since _I'm_ the one who keeps an eye on you."

When he turned back around, Charmer had her hip cocked, her hand on it, and her eyebrows raised at him disbelievingly. "What?"

But he wasn't about to repeat himself. Especially not that… not about that. "I just thought he could knock some sense into you, since I obviously can't. What you did was dangerous, boss. Can't go marching in some place like a cowboy anymore, not when-" He stopped, biting off the end of his words. _Not when you have to leave for the Institute soon._

Luckily, she pretended like she didn't hear him.

"Can we rewind to the part where you said _you_ keep an eye on me?"

Deacon rolled his eyes and headed for the door. "Didn't the war teach you anything? Can't rewind life at will, boss. Now come on. We've got more work lined up."

And for once, he was the one to leave, forcing Charmer to hurry to catch up with him, her eyes wide and thoughtful and constantly peering at him.

-0-0-

"What are we doing?" Despite the sunglasses, Deacon squinted at his partner, the fiery sun already fading onto the cusp of the horizon just over her shoulder.

Charmer shrugged. "HQ's still an hour away. It's gonna get dark any minute now. Figured we could just shack up here for the night, if that's okay with you." She crinkled her nose in annoyance. "Wasn't gonna mention it before, but Glory snores like an eighty-year-old man."

Deacon stared at his partner. He'd been sleeping, at whatever HQ they'd had, near Glory for years now, and she decidedly did _not_ snore. At all. Ever. "Yeah?" But he could play along. "You finally noticed that, huh?"

The twinkle in her eyes said she knew he was humoring her. "Took some time, but I finally realized it wasn't _you_."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he rolled his eyes. "I swear, if someone tells me another old man joke…"

"All right, all right," she grinned at him, shoving the door to the old, weathered house open. "No more old man jokes. Honestly, I was running out, anyway."

"I guess not everyone can be as clever as me," Deacon chirped proudly, following his partner into the ruined house to clear each room. After they'd taken out a pair of ghouls stuck behind a locked door on the second floor, they moved back to the living room downstairs and began shoving ancient, rotting furniture aside to make room for their sleeping packs.

An easy silence emerged as they worked, side by side, as they had been for so many months now. Charmer would make their sleeping arrangements as comfortable as possible while Deacon would shuffle through cabinets and drawers to find any odds and ends they might want. She might've thought he didn't notice, but Deacon knew Charmer was always trying to take some resources back to the settlements she'd set up with Garvey. She was always thinking about other people – what she could do for them, how she could help – and whenever possible, he'd nab a couple useful items and stash them in her pack for her to find later.

Finding a few lightbulbs and some fuses in one drawer, Deacon carefully set them aside for Charmer to find later. As soon as he'd settled the items near her pack, his stomach rumbled, eliciting a chuckle from his partner, who was crouched on the floor, seemingly ensuring that she could see both entrances to the house – the front and the back – from where she'd be sleeping.

"Hungry much?" she glanced at up him, and the way her dark eyelashes framed the green eyes that haunted Deacon's every waking moment made something else stir in his stomach, too. "I think I spotted a cooking pit out back. If you get a fire going, I'll make us something to eat."

Something about that sentence, the way it was so casual and so normal of her to say, made Deacon's chest constrict painfully. He was feeling too many things at once, thinking too many things at once – so he grabbed some oil from his pack and a flip lighter, and headed outside without a word.

Deacon wasn't sure if what he needed was some space from the relic or a _subtraction_ of space. He really wasn't sure anymore. High Rise's insinuation – that Deacon and Charmer were some kind of silly Railroad power couple – echoed in his head, again and again; the nonchalance with which his old friend had implied it, the accepting tone. He tried to replay all the moments he and Charmer had returned from an op, how all the other agents would gawk and stare at them, how their eyes would flash with something he had only ever thought was curiosity or envy or something of the like, but upon real reflection, was probably something closer to High Rise's assumption.

And Des – what did _she_ think? The Alpha wasn't one to gossip, but surely she'd heard something, from Tom or Drummer Boy or even Glory. Yet she had never mentioned anything to Deacon…

Deacon sighed to himself, pouring some oil over the firepit Charmer had mentioned and lighting it up quickly, carelessly enough to almost burn himself.

"You good, Deac?"

Her voice startled him, but it shouldn't have. Deacon was _never_ startled. Ever. He was always acutely aware of his surroundings and everyone in it.

Turning to face her, shoulders stiff, mouth pulled into a tight frown, Deacon snaked his eyes up and down her figure.

A bad idea – his stomach squirmed once more – because she'd removed her combat vest and the rest of her armor, now standing before him in only the tight black pants she'd found when out with Glory and a black, form-fitting long-sleeved shirt.

He'd tried hard not to ever linger on her curves before, but fuck. She was making it difficult.

"Yeah," he ground out, staring determinedly at her eyes. "What're we cookin' up tonight? Don't tell me it's the Mac n' Cheese again. I swear to God, boss, you have an addiction that not even the best addictol can cure."

Charmer smiled up at him strangely. As if she knew he was all twisted and tangled inside over whatever was going on between them; as if she could feel the tightness in his chest when he looked at her, _really looked at her_ , and kept remembering that one of these days, he might not get to even do that anymore.

She'll be gone.

One of her scarred, small hands reached up to tuck a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. The ends of her dark hair were jagged again, freshly cut to just above her shoulders, likely from Glory or one of the other agents back at HQ. No barber would've let her leave in such a state – disheveled, but in the best possible way.

"Deacon," she said softly, pulling him out of his trance of memorizing every detail that made her into the woman she was. "Talk to me."

He wasn't sure if he was tired in the physical sense or the spiritual sense, but Deacon just couldn't put his mask back on right now. His frown lingered, despite his brain telling him to cover it up. Hide it away. Make everything seem normal and okay. "Nothing to talk about, boss."

How the woman managed to look both indulgent and irritated would forever puzzle him. "That so?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p', shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans to do _something_ with them.

Charmer stared at him for a long moment. A long moment which turned into several long moments; her staring up at him, across the meager three feet that separated them, her dark eyelashes bringing out the bright green in her irises, her lips pulled into a tiny frown, brows furrowed so that a cute little line appeared between them.

There was barely three feet separating them, but it felt like three inches. His chest constricted again – God, he hadn't felt this way in _years_ , since – no, he didn't want to think about that now, didn't want to taint his memories of Charmer with his wicked past – he just – he just _what?_ He couldn't stop staring at her, wishing he had one of those old-world cameras to take a photo of her with, something he could hold onto. Something he'd always have.

Finally, after several minutes had passed this way, Charmer suddenly shook her head, the disappointment coloring her eyes almost tangible.

"I've given you so many chances, Deacon," she spoke quietly, her hands gesturing to the house around them, the fire pit, the small distance that separated him from her. "So many chances. And things may not –"She caught herself before saying it, but he already knew. _And things may not go well, in the Institute_. Biting her bottom lip, she glared up at him. "Aren't _you_ going to miss _me?_ "

There were so many ways to answer that question. So many things he could say, could do. _God yes_ , he thought. _God, you have no idea._ He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed again. What _could_ he possibly say?

Yes I'm going to miss you, but while you're gone, you'll find out who I really am and what I've really done and you won't miss me, anymore? You won't want anything to do with me?

Yeah, no. Those words weren't itching to pour outta his mouth. Not _now_.

Charmer soaked up his silence for another moment before turning resolutely on her heel, shoulders taut and pulled back, jaw clenched. Something about the way she was holding herself gave off the sense of such… finality. As if she were done handing out chances. Done trying to get him to fess up to how he felt.

She didn't make it a single step back inside before Deacon's hand latched onto her forearm and twisted her back around. A surprised sound fell from her mouth, low and airy and honestly music to his ears, before she was facing him again. They were nearly chest to chest now –her bosom heaving with surprised breath and Deacon trying to hold impossibly still as he tugged her closer.

There was so little time left, and fuck, fuck his cowardice, his hesitation. There weren't any more chances, after this.

There was nothing gentle about it – his hands trailed up her arms before snaking into her hair, pulling her against his chest as his lips crashed against hers, ravenous, starved for this thing he had wanted for so long. Charmer hesitated for only a moment before responding, wrapping her arms around Deacon's neck, making him groan into her mouth as she nibbled at his lip and ran her fingers across his smooth head.

For so long, Deacon had been carefully constructed to never lose control. To always be aware, alert, and ready to respond to anything or anyone. But Deacon had lost control completely now, so wrapped up in memorizing the sensation of her lean, petite body pressed up against him that he didn't care anymore.

This was what he wanted, and for a short while longer, this was what she wanted, too.

Pressing another hard kiss to her mouth, Deacon bent suddenly and scooped Charmer up into his arms, eliciting another gasp from her pretty, pretty lips. Kicking the back door open, he carried her inside, knees turning to jelly when he felt her tongue begin to explore his neck, her teeth run across the outer shell of his ear, suck his earlobe into her mouth.

That's when he lost it.

Settling her beneath him on the sleeping mats she'd arranged earlier, he cursed and moaned and peppered her collarbone with chaste, lingering kisses, making her squirm beneath him.

" _Deacon_ ," she gasped, her fingernails running along the base of his skull, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth back to hers, sucking on his bottom lip and sweeping her tongue over it.

There was too much he wanted to savor, too much he wanted to do. " _Nora_ ," he panted into her mouth, the name never once spoken on his lips but so _right_. So fucking right. God, he just wanted to say it again and again, to make her _his_ finally, no more distance or codenames or hidden looks.

She pulled away from him, lips parted and swollen, eyes hooded with lust. For _him_. For him, of all people.

How was he worthy of that?

Small, scarred hands reached up, tentatively, so that he could anticipate her move, so he had time to object if he thought it was crossing a line. His mouth remained pressed closed, and Charmer continued, her fingers slipping along the cool frames of his omnipresent sunglasses, pinching them and dragging them off of him, all in one fluid motion.

He couldn't help it, though. With his heart hammering away in his chest, his mind whirring at an unnatural speed, he pinched his eyes shut so she wouldn't see them. What would she see, if she saw the real him? If he stopped hiding away behind the sunglasses?

Soft lips pressed gently against his eyelids, a sweet supplication. "Deacon," she whispered before giving another feather-soft kiss to his temple, nudging him lightly with her nose. "Deacon… Look at me."

"Nora, I - "But what excuse did he have? That he was _afraid_? Because if he took away his fear, what was left?

His desperate need for her. For this.

"Deacon," she tried again, her voice hardly louder than a whisper, coarse from their ministrations, vibrating through his chest, his whole body, as she lay there beneath him. She nuzzled him with her nose again and sighed against his lips. "Please… Just look at me. Please?"

He would do anything she asked. Anything. Heart pounding fiercely against his ribcage, Deacon finally peeled his eyes open. He felt so _exposed_. So _naked_ , so vulnerable, unable to hide all his ugly parts away. How she could even bear to look at him –

"I've thought about this moment," she said, breaking into his spiraling thoughts, her gaze warm and kind and gentle, "for so long now, Deacon. You can't even imagine."

 _God, yes, I can_.

Staring down at her, his hips pressed _just right_ into her soft, spread legs, he looked at her openly for the first time without the dark blue tint of his glasses tainting her perfection. For a moment, he could forget his insecurities and allow himself this rare chance to study her, so openly, without any barrier between them.

"Your eyes are brown," she said, a questioning lilt to her soft tone.

He wanted to pinch his eyes shut again, but fought every instinct he had to do so. Instead, he managed a lopsided smile. "Sounds like you're disappointed, boss."

"Not at all," she replied, a hitch to her voice, as she writhed beneath him, rubbing up against him in the most _delicious_ manner imaginable. "You're beautiful, Deacon."

"I'll miss you," he said suddenly, the hand that wasn't holding him above her brushing a few strands of dark hair from her cheek. "I'll miss you like crazy. God, I'll miss you."

She stared back at him with hooded eyes and those long, dark eyelashes. "Show me."

Groaning, he did exactly as he was told, tugging down the collar of her shirt to place his mouth on the smooth, soft skin at the juncture of her throat.

-0-0-

It was hours later that Deacon was laid out on his back, a thin blanket from his pack clinging to his naked body from waist-down, Charmer sprawled out next to him with her head resting on his chest. He stared up at the decaying ceiling, the splintered wood and worn carpet and night sky he could see, peeking out through holes here and there. It had been so long since he'd looked at the sky without those damn sunglasses on – he forgot that it wasn't the faded, hazy black his lenses made them out to be, but inky, like Charmer's hair.

Her hair tickled his chest in the most wonderful way. Trailing a finger down her spine, Deacon blinked before he pulled her closer to him, until she was half-straddling his leg and half on her sleeping mat.

Glancing down at her was still hard – he felt so _bare_ – but he did it anyway, a tiny smirk on his lips as she stared at him curiously. "Glory doesn't snore," he finally pointed out, fixing her with an amused _I'm calling your bullshit_ look.

Charmer blinked up at him innocently. "She doesn't? Hmm."

Hmm, indeed. "You had us stop here for the night so you could take advantage of me, didn't you?"

The smile she gave him would forever be burned into his mind – something beautiful to finally displace the ugly that filled his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Deacon gave a playful roll of his eyes. " _O-kay_ , boss."

Charmer readjusted herself, laying her palm flat against his chest, pressing her bare breasts against his skin so she was looking down at him. "I like it when you call me boss."

"I know you do," he replied easily.

"Good," she said, smirking. "Keep doing it."

Slipping his hands onto her lower back, Deacon rolled them over until she was beneath him yet again, her hair fanned out around her head like the night sky, her legs wrapped around his waist. God, he would never get used to the sight. Never. "Yes, ma'am," he said, skimming his nose along her cheek before kissing his way down her body, making his two-hundred-year-old pre-War relic gasp and sigh and moan into the night.

0-0-0

When they arrived back at HQ the following day, Deacon's hands clammed up. No one would've noticed, of course – he wasn't the Railroad's best agent, next to Charmer, for no reason. But _he_ knew it, and fuck, he was getting too paranoid. Every look from any one of the passing agents he read as: _I know what you and Charmer did last night_.

But no one could've known, and besides, they all apparently _thought_ he and Charmer were already together. What was the harm, really?

Whether or not they were actually together was a whole different issue. One they both had successfully evaded since getting up in the morning and walking back to the old church. One that thickened the air whenever she looked at him, with that smile reserved for him and him alone. One that needled at him as he remembered her upcoming leave for the Institute, hovering in the near future like the great monster that it was.

He ached to touch her. Now that he _had_ , in the most intimate of ways, he was addicted. It was the simple things. Wanting to place his hand on her lower back when they were standing near each other, yearning to brush the hair out of her eyes, to just be _close_. It was all he could think about.

But Charmer was back to her old self – hard to decipher, tense, forward-looking and always on the move. She was focused. Everything he wasn't. She was nodding along to whatever Des was telling her, telling both of them, but he just couldn't put his mind in it. Images of her writhing beneath him, moaning, pulling his face down to smother him with kisses replayed over and over in his head, made his heart flutter every so often.

He'd known it the first couple of weeks they'd spent together, just traveling on the road from place to place, but Deacon was _fucked_. Wholeheartedly, thoroughly, utterly fucked.

Finally, when he'd zoned out for far too long, Glory's sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs, making him wince and rub at the spot tenderly. "Sheesh," he said, looking her up and down, like he hadn't been thinking of another woman very close by, the way her lips parted in ecstasy when he moved in her just the right way. "Someone's grouchy today. What, didn't get to take Karma out on her morning walk?"

Glory fixed Deacon with an odd stare. "Oh, Karma was _very_ thoroughly warmed up this morning, just a mile east of here." The odd look faded into a sharp smile. "She's had a busy, busy day." Then she nudged Deacon, softer this time. "And you, Deac? _You_ have a busy day?"

Once again, Deacon was surprised by the synth's perception. He'd known Glory for nearly ten years now, and never once had she been so keen on his private affairs, which was essentially part of the deal, when you worked for a super secret organization that could be wiped out at any moment. "Not sure what you mean. Day's just begun, right?"

"For some of us," Glory said cryptically, her lips quirking upwards. Then her eyes moved to land on Charmer, several feet away, engaged in a discussion with the Alpha of the Railroad, gesturing wildly with her hands. "She seems… more relaxed, than usual. Don't you think?"

Deacon gave Glory his best smile. "Must've been the traveling masseuse we ran into, between here and Concord. Honestly, man had fingers made of magic. Worked out a coupl'a kinks in my neck, too."

Rolling her eyes, the heavy made to walk away. "I'm happy for you, Deacon. I really am." But her warm eyes turned glacial in under a second. "But like I said before – don't fuck this up. Understand me?"

A sudden wave of nausea washed over the spy, hitting him like a fucking tidal wave. Don't fuck this up? This was _destined_ to get fucked up. Charmer was going to the Institute… and then what?

Then his little slice of heaven, his reprieve from this ugly world, would be ripped from him. Again.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

Once Charmer had joined the Railroad several months back, Deacon had updated Standard Protocol to include having Drummer Boy keep an ear on Radio Freedom. Never thought much would come of it, honestly – and besides, Garvey was frustrating as hell – but Deacon was once again impressed by his own foresight when the Minutemen put out a call for their General over the station.

Charmer was fast asleep on her designated mattress behind the brick wall, her cheek pressed into her pillow, her body curled up like a cat. Deacon hovered in the entranceway for a moment, let his eyes skim over her form and remembered how delectable it had felt writhing beneath him, her full lips moaning his name.

It woke a part of his body up that wasn't used to interacting with the world much these days, and made him _really fucking uncomfortable_ , because they were in HQ. He was getting a boner in HQ. God, he was so fucked.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, repressing a sigh, he silently stepped closer to his relic and squatted beside her. One gentle hand reached out to nudge her shoulder, the other braced his balance on the ground.

Charmer's reaction to Deacon's touch was instantaneous. She shot upright, like an alarm had gone off, and gripped his hand tightly, almost painfully, in her own. Wide, confused eyes followed his hand up his arm, finally to his face, and she sucked in a deep breath to force her body to relax. Her grip lightened on his hand until she was merely holding it against her chest, a surprising show of affection, particularly from Charmer. He chalked it up to her likely still being groggy from sleep.

"Sorry," she breathed out, wakefulness returning to her sharp green eyes with every passing second. "Habit."

Deacon squeezed her hand reassuringly. "'S'okay, boss."

She seemed to realize how they looked: her holding his hand flush against her chest, like the lovers they now were, and slowly let him go, blinking. "Need me for something?"

He didn't miss the eagerness in her tone. It was always present these days, her penchant for recklessness rising up further to the surface. The look she'd get in her eyes – like she was thirsty for a battle or destruction or something he couldn't quite put his finger on – made Deacon nervous. Too nervous to ask what it was she was looking for that he couldn't give her.

"Yeah. Garvey put a call out for you on Radio Freedom. Said Lexington's settlement needed a helping hand."

Charmer straightened up; although she nodded, there was a darkness in her eyes Deacon couldn't quite decipher. "Oh, good. They're ready for us at the relay, then. That's our code phrase."

Deacon could've sworn his belly dropped to his toes or the floor had fallen out from beneath his feet. They were ready at the relay? So soon? He might've guessed that it would take longer than a month for Tom to get the contraption up and running, but three weeks? Fuck. It was all coming together. It was too soon.

"Deacon," Charmer said softly, forcing his eyes to raise to hers once more. She was giving him a rare gentle look, like she could sense the chaos that was his thoughts. Despite there being other agents in the crypt, despite any possible sideways glances they might get, she raised her hand up to cup his cheek and he let her. Leaned in to it, relished its warmth, its Charmerness in the way that her skin was both soft and callused, in the way that she belonged both to the past and to the present. "I'm not gone yet," she said, but he couldn't tell if she was talking more to herself or to him. "It's gonna be okay."

But it wasn't going to be okay. He knew that.

"Yeah, boss."

He pulled away from her caress and stood. Offered her a hand to help her to her feet. Tried so hard to ignore the lingering look she was giving him.

"I'm gonna tell Des," she announced, slowly slipping away from him. "You should get ready to leave. We can be there by sundown."

He let her go without another word, staring silently at a brick in the crypt's wall. Their time had officially run out, and he wasn't ready.

000

Des walked ahead of the trio like she was marching into some great battle. With her shoulders pulled back, her chin canted high, it was easy to imagine her leading a group of warriors into a fight. Hell, Deacon had heard Des was quite the heavy back in her day, cutting down supermutants and raiders alike, much like Charmer did now. The pair had a lot in common, more than either of them probably knew.

Charmer walked in the middle of him and Glory, her silence weighing heavily on the thick Wasteland air. The day had grown humid with rain and radstorms, making his chest ache the entire walk to the relay site, or at least that was what he was trying to convince himself. He was pretending not to notice the worried looks Glory kept tossing at Charmer here and there, the void stare straight ahead that Charmer wouldn't break.

Unlike Des, Charmer didn't much look like she was happy to be walking into battle. She looked more like a woman being led to the gallows; somber, pensive, broody. He wanted, more than anything, to reach out and grab her hand, reassure her that he was there, still there. But he couldn't. And so he didn't.

When they reached the relay site, Tom greeted each of them with a huge, toothy grin. "'Bout time y'all made it out," he said, patting Glory on the back before turning his attention to Charmer and Des. "We about ready. My baby's gonna be up and running by dawn."

Deacon had to give Charmer some credit. She didn't even blink, didn't bat a single fucking eyelash at this. Just took it like she had to.

"Good," Des said, a smile curling on her lips. "You've done well, Tom."

"Well, I had some help."

Ugh. Cue Preston Garvey. AKA the Minuteman holding the longest record to have a stick shoved up his ass. AKA the man currently looking at Charmer – _Deacon's_ Charmer – with fucking hearts in his eyes, a furrow between his brows, a question on his lips that Deacon was sure he wasn't gonna like.

"General," he greeted, adding a polite nod at Glory and Desdemona. His eyes skimmed over Deacon, acknowledging him without fully acknowledging him. Then his rosy eyes turned back to the General, and he asked, "Mind if I talk to you for a moment?"

Charmer frowned. "Sure." When Garvey tried to put a guiding hand on her shoulder, she subtly dodged his touch, a scowl taking over her frown.

Deacon watched closely as Garvey led her a good distance away from anyone within earshot. He watched, chest tight, as Garvey explained something to her, as Charmer got angry and waved him off. And he would have watched further if Glory hadn't poked him in the side with Karma.

" _Hey_ ," Deacon drawled unhappily, staring down at the offending minigun. "Is the safety on that thing on? It'd better be, Glory. I never forgot that time you grazed me with a bullet during High Rise's birthday party. Never."

Glory rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Like it even ruined those pretty cheekbones of yours. You got them redone a month after that, anyway."

"Still hurt."

"Yeah? Hurt as much as seeing Preston Garvey try to go after your girl?"

Deacon grinned at Glory, because if he didn't, his irritation definitely would have shown through. "No idea whatcha mean. Garvey's got a crush on his boss? Kinky."

"More like you have a crush on your partner," Glory pointed out. "The partner you're actually sleeping with."

A quick glance around told Deacon that Des had thankfully walked away with Tom and now stood listening to some spiel on the Great and Mighty Relay set up in the middle of the heavily fortified and guarded campsite. Small mercies.

"Yes, her mattress is next to mine in HQ. Very observant of you, Glory. I think you were a detective, back in the Institute. Betcha wore a fancy fedora and everything."

"Ha-ha." Wow, was she unamused? Imagine that. "You _know_ I know. The more you try to deny it, the sadder it gets for you, Deac. 'Sides, you gotta talk about it sometime. Your girl is going off into the Great Beyond." Glory paused, growing somber. "Might not come back."

A lump formed in Deacon's throat. He swallowed it right back down. "She'll come back."

"But if she doesn't?"

"She will."

She will. He knew that for sure. But she wasn't gonna come back the same. She was going to know all the things Deacon could've told her himself. She was going to know that Deacon was keeping secrets from her this whole time. She was gonna hate him, and he was gonna lose her.

000

"So what did the Boy Scout want with you?" he drawled casually later that evening, long after the sun had set, after High Rise had arrived with a dozen bottles of booze for everyone to get plastered off of, after Deacon had been watching Charmer from afar for way too long because he couldn't strap on the balls to just go and talk to her, to be with her, and let everyone else see them that way.

Finally, he did, after some goading from Glory – who was fucking relentless, Jesus – even though his skin crawled from all the pairs of eyes he felt on himself. He was meant to be a spook. A specter in the night. A shadow. He wasn't meant for all this attention.

Charmer turned a small smile on him, both pitying him for his obvious discomfort and seemingly glad that he'd finally approached her. "Preston was just being Preston."

Deacon cocked an eyebrow at that. "You sure learned how to be vague from the best of 'em."

"I did," she grinned at him. "From you."

"Aww, you flatter me too much. I'm gonna start thinkin' something's up."

"Wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

She turned her profile on him, her eyes drifting out onto the dead fields and jagged rock that surrounded Tom's Relay. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her back pressed against an old crate that had somehow found its way onto the shack's rooftop. Deacon slowly climbed the ladder up and settled himself beside her, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Are you ready?" he managed to ask, but the crack in his voice didn't go unnoticed to either of them. He cleared his throat, tried his best to look away from her, failed. "Y'know, nothing's set in stone yet, boss. You don't have to do this."

The smile that formed on Charmer's lips was sad and flimsy. He couldn't stop looking at her but she couldn't even meet his eyes; smiling that soft, heartbreaking smile up at the waning moon, she gave an absent shrug. "You know me, Deacon. Do you really think I won't go through with it?"

His chest ached. He felt nauseous and angry and helpless. So helpless. When silence settled between the pair, Charmer finally tore her gaze away from the night sky to look at him. Really look at him.

Her hand reached out, grabbed tightly at his. For a brief moment, his relic, his warrior, his goddess of death looked so broken. So unsure of herself. So unlike herself. But then the woman that had risen out of that vault two hundred years too late reappeared; she steeled herself, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and scooted over so that their shoulders were pressed against each other.

"It's going to be okay, Deacon," she told him, and for a while, just a little while, he could fool himself into believing it. "No matter what, it'll be okay."

000

She stood on the platform like a soldier prepared for her final battle. Shoulders drawn back tight, head high, hands making fists at her sides. Even while Tom began shouting enthusiastically about the readings on the control panel, she didn't look at anyone. Her sharp green eyes stared determinedly, doggedly out across the Wasteland.

 _Look at me_ , Deacon thought, wishing desperately that she would. Close to falling to his knees and begging, close to shouting her name just to get that green gaze to land on him one last time before everything went to hell. Just one last time. He knew she'd never look at him the same after this, after charging past this point of no return.

When blue sparks began to spew from the top of the relay, Deacon almost lost his breakfast. But Charmer, his Charmer, she didn't even flinch. Her head turned, those deep green eyes looked at him, her mouth opened like she was going to say something, _something_ , and then she was gone. Just… gone.

The moment she disappeared, the relay collapsed in on itself, a beast of wires and metal groaning and wheezing to the ground. Deacon couldn't move. Could hardly breathe. She was there and then she was gone. Gone.

Several moments of silence hovered over the Railroad agents and Minutemen alike, the sort of confused, even shell-shocked species of silence that Deacon didn't want to read into too much. He couldn't.

She was there, then she was gone.

"Tom?" Des's voice finally broke through his thoughts, her tone shrill. That someone like Des was even worried forced Deacon to turn away from the broken relay, to clench his hands into fists and shove them into the pockets of his old jeans so no one could see. "Tom – did it work? Did it work?"

Muted by the sight of his work of art collapsing in on itself, Tom could only scratch his head and frown. "I don't know, man… I don't know." He looked over at Des, then towards Deacon, who still couldn't face anyone. "I guess… we'll just have to wait and see."

000

Deacon couldn't simply 'wait and see'. He couldn't. Sitting on his hands had never been something he was able to do. And while some of the others had been content to hang around Bedford Station to see if their pre-war relic would return within the week, to see if she was at least alive, Deacon couldn't. He just couldn't. That left him with too much time to think, with too many questions he simply couldn't get the answers to.

So he threw himself back into the cause full-force. Dead-drops, recruiting new tourists, checking in on the old ones, shuffling packages around until their safehouse space was nearing its max. High Rise complained not once, not twice, but three times about Deacon's single-mindedness, about his revamped myopic lens through which he chose to see the world.

He spoke to no one unless absolutely necessary. PAM for receiving missions and reporting intel. Des on the rare occasion that the Alpha stepped out of her office, her increasingly sleep-deprived features growing more and more gaunt by the day. Glory when he needed a place cleared out, a new path scouted. Drummer Boy when it was time for weekly reports. But he dodged High Rise when he dropped off new packages to Ticonderoga, avoided the Castle when he had heard that Preston was hoping to speak with him, dismissed the courier Hancock had sent because the Mayor of Goodneighbor for some reason requested a face-to-face with the master spy.

Pretended he didn't catch the pitying looks of his fellow agents whenever he returned to HQ, or that he didn't hear the whispers:

 _Two weeks and we still haven't heard anything? Maybe it's time to cross her name off the board._

 _If Charmer failed, what do we do next?_

 _Why don't we have a backup plan?_

 _What if she's dead, or worse – compromised?_

He shut it all out. Slept when his body forced him to, worked until his knees ached as much as his chest did. That's how two weeks passed into three, then three into four, and now five. Five weeks. Five weeks had passed without any word from Charmer, without Deacon knowing if she was even alive to hate him the way she should. Even if the next time he saw her, she looked at him with absolute disgust, that would be okay. Because it would mean she was alive. And that was all that mattered, now.

000

Deacon was rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes when he heard a familiar Minuteman's voice coming from the main chamber of the crypt. Panic darted through his chest as he briefly entertained the thought that either someone had let the Minuteman in – which meant that some situation had grown dire enough to let an outsider into their super-secret new headquarters – or that the man had forced his way in because Deacon had been dodging him for weeks now.

As soon as he stepped into the main chamber, Deacon realized his fears were unnecessary. Instead of coming face-to-face with the crabbiest Minuteman alive, Deacon found Glory sitting in front of a radio, tuned to Radio Freedom no doubt, her eyes closed and a frown cutting deep onto her face.

He hung back behind the crumbling brick wall that separated the mattresses from the chamber and listened, jaw tight.

" _It's been nearly six weeks since our General went out on a potentially hazardous mission,"_ Garvey said, barely able to mask his forlorn tone. " _We ask that anyone who might know anything about her whereabouts come forward to the Castle."_

He couldn't help himself. His feet moved of their own accord as he quickly approached Glory, he watched as if from outside of himself as his hand moved so quickly to turn the radio off that he surprised not only the synth Heavy, but himself.

All the pity that the other agents had been surreptitiously throwing his way manifested on Glory's scarred face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Deacon cut her off.

"Don't," he said, harsher than he intended. Warning bells were going off in his head – he was showing his cards too much, revealing his emotions, and he needed to get a grip. Deacon, the master spy, the Railroad's best agent, didn't fall apart. There was work to be done and he was the one who needed to do it.

Glory studied him silently for a few moments before kindly, almost sympathetically, turning her gaze away. Deacon's skin crawled. He needed to get out of the crypt. He needed to get away from sad eyes and knowing expressions and people who wanted to talk about it, because no, he was not going to talk about it.

"Mass Fusion needs clearing out," he reminded Glory in as normal a tone as he could manage. "Think you can handle it?"

She glanced up at him, her own expression schooled into one of pure professionalism. "Consider it done."

"Good." And he high-tailed it out of there, needing fresh Wasteland air and a good, long walk to Diamond City to clear his head.

000

Another week passed. Six, now, but Deacon only recalled the number absent-mindedly, considering his head was pounding like a war drum and he couldn't quite get his feet out beneath him. The previous evening had been spent at the Third Rail nursing too many stale beers after he'd received intel that Hancock had left the settlement for a period of time.

Just Deacon's luck, too, since he'd begun questioning his position in his own carefully crafted world earlier that day and needed a decent watering hole to shack up in. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the empty mattress beside his. Harder to pretend that Des didn't look like a mother who'd lost her child. That Deacon himself had lost something so integral to himself and that the cause just wasn't enough to plug that void growing bigger and bigger inside of him with each day.

This wasn't the first time Deacon had woken up in the Redford Hotel with a nasty hangover and an aching, sick heart. God, he didn't want to remember the first time – his wife's blood dry and dark on his t-shirt, his feet aching from the mindless hours-long walk he'd made from University Point to the infamous Goodneighbor. That version of himself, pre-Deacon, had just watched his entire life fade away. Die in the hands of the very organization he was supposed to be working for. That version of himself couldn't survive without Barbara – had needed a change, a face-swap, a whole new identity and a proper cause to rally behind and throw himself into in order to keep on keeping on. Deacon had been born in the bloody, dark ashes of a night gone horribly wrong, from a heartache that went so deep that he had to disassociate himself from it in order to feel anything but pain.

What would become of Deacon now, he wondered? Was this the end of another era? The birth of a new man with a new face, a new name?

He groaned against all the thoughts flooding his brain, his stream of consciousness just as loud as the war drum beating steady and angry behind his eyes. Mid-afternoon sunlight wavered over the centuries-worn carpet in the room he'd rented, and even that brought back memories almost too painful to relive.

The first time he and Charmer had stayed in Goodneighbor, her evening out with Hancock and Deacon's pathetic attempt to ignore his growing feelings for her. When she stumbled back into the room late that night, high outta her mind, looking small and young and innocent. The next morning. The brush of her hands against his.

It would be wrong for Deacon to say that he didn't realize one could ache so colossally for another human being, could feel their absence in the way the air simply felt too thin. It would be another lie to tell himself. But he had forgotten how deeply the heart could be wounded. How much the body could want to surrender to this emotional pain.

As he was being pulled into another memory of Charmer – her writhing beneath him that glorious night out in the midst of the Commonwealth, when he could finally be honest and she could finally see the real part of himself he kept tucked away – the door to his hotel room flung open and smacked against the wall, creating such a thunderous, resounding bang that the master spy jolted on his bare mattress.

Deacon bolted upright. His head swam and his vision blackened around the edges from such an abrupt move, but he fought against his nausea and instead tried to focus on the figure looming in his doorway.

"Jesus fuck," he grumbled once he made out the white hair, the caramel skin, and the adored minigun at his intruder's side. "You sure know how to make an entrance, y'know that?"

Glory sauntered into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. Deacon winced at the subsequent bang that echoed inside his head; Glory really wasn't known for gentle, smooth movements or her quiet presence.

Her gray eyes appraised him from head to toe as he lay back flat on the mattress once more, looking for all the world like she was staring at some pathetic mongrel stealing a few moments of rest on the streets. "You look like shit," she stated in her typical blunt, Glory way. "And you're losing your touch. It was too easy for me to find you."

"Easy?" Deacon scoffed, resting his elbow over his face to block out the sunlight cutting into his eyes. "I know for a fact that any lead on me would have taken you to Abernathy Farms. Word on the street says I love their home-brewed vodka."

Glory rolled her eyes and rested Karma on the floor beside Deacon's bed. Flopping onto an old wing-backed chair, she sighed. "Yeah, that's the word on the street. But PAM recognizes Charmer as the unknown variable, not you, Deac."

That was frustrating, if not altogether disconcerting. PAM could track him, now? When had he gotten so predictable?

 _When Charmer rose from that fucking vault_ , his mind mocked him.

"So," Glory carried on, ignoring Deacon's sideways glare. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Your hairstyle?" There. That sounded like him. More like the Deacon everyone else was accustomed to. "Yeah, been meaning to talk to you about it, actually. Synth hair grows just like any human's – really think it's time for you to try something new out."

Despite his irreverent tone, his decent attempt at regaining part of himself, Glory wasn't one who ever dealt with his bullshit. "Do you think she's dead?" Glory asked, settling further into her chair, giving Deacon a look that was some hybrid between irritated and genuinely curious. "Is that why you're doing this? You think she died in the relay or when she got into the Institute?"

Deacon's stomach rolled. God, he didn't want to think about it. Hadn't thought about it, truth be told. Charmer was one of the toughest people he had ever met. Hell, she was two hundred years out of time. Two hundred! And the way she fought… Had to be hard to kill a woman like that… right?

"She's not dead," he finally replied, sensing that Glory planned to get an answer from him one way or another.

The synth stared at him, unreadable. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

Glory scoffed. "You're not really one for faith, Deac. Gimme more credit than that. Unless three of your tourists confirm something for you, and then you manage to check it out for yourself, you don't believe much of anything."

"Not true," Deacon lifted a finger in the air. "I'd heard that Preston fucking Garvey had a stick shoved up his ass for so long that his face was fixed in a permanent scowl, and I believed it right away. _And_ it turned out to be true."

The chuckle he received from the Railroad's Heavy lightened some of the weight on his heart, if only a little. "Maybe so. But this is different." She paused. "This is Charmer."

He couldn't look at her when he asked. "Do _you_ think she's dead?"

The pregnant pause that hung between the pair was answer enough. Glory's doubt stabbed at Deacon, needled him in the worst way. So was that how everyone in HQ saw it? That their star agent was probably dead and gone? That this woman who was so fierce, so rebellious in the face of every obstacle that threw itself in her path, could just die? Just like that?

Glory remained silent for several longer moments before rising to her feet. She looked at Deacon, and he dared to meet her gaze, if only to show her how wrong he thought she was. But what he saw in the synth's gray eyes was unexpected, so uncharacteristic of the hardened heavy that Glory had come to be known as. She looked at him with raw, unbridled pain, with loss, with a brokenness he could feel reflected in his own chest, and he understood why she wanted to believe Charmer was dead.

It was easier than holding onto the hope that maybe, _maybe_ , she wasn't.

"We need you back at HQ," Glory said, her voice rough. "By nightfall."

She swept out of the room much like the way she had swept in: banging doors, yanked open and kicked shut, and not a single glance back or farewell.

000

It was another unremarkable day in HQ when Drummer Boy sprinted up to Deacon, despite the crypt being waaay too small for a light jog let alone a full-out sprint, the young man nearly colliding with the master spy.

"Deac – _Deacon_!" the kid panted, his eyes so wide Deacon was afraid they had popped right outta their sockets. Deacon instinctually reached for the 10mm pistol Charmer had once customized for him, taking Drummer Boy's panic to mean that HQ was under attack. Again.

"Where and who?" Deacon asked seriously, standing from the desk he had been doing paperwork at. The agents around the pair all froze in place, waiting for Drummer Boy to deliver the bad news, waiting to hear gunshots at the crypt's entrance.

"No, _no_. You don't understand." The kid glanced around at the other agents, his eyes still wide as saucers. Raking a hand over his face, Drummer Boy laughed. "You don't understand – it's Charmer. Charmer – she's alive."

Whatever happened after Drummer Boy's announcement passed by in a haze for Deacon: the whooping and hollering of his fellow agents, Des's relieved face poking out of her office, Glory's askance glances at Deacon, the chatter that built up and up and up until he couldn't stand it anymore, until Deacon needed to flee so he could have a moment to himself. He wasn't sure if he needed to breathe or cry or shout or maybe all three.

Charmer was alive. She was alive. Glory had been right, before – Deacon didn't believe a damn thing unless three of his tourists confirmed it and he saw it with his own two eyes, but for the first time in his life, he could sense in his heart that this was true. She was alive.

The relief that overwhelmed his chest and threatened to force tears to his eyes – God, how embarrassing was that – quickly faded when Deacon realized that Drummer Boy had been the one to tell him. That the kid had to report on her status, that Charmer hadn't come out to HQ to tell the Railroad herself.

He wanted to tell himself that it was because his war relic was trying to keep a low profile, to throw any suspicion off of the Railroad just in case, but he knew, deep down, why she hadn't come.

She knew about Deacon's past.

It had been inevitable, anyway.

000

"Word on the street," Deacon said in his usual irreverent tone, just barely holding his carefully constructed mask together, "is that you've been trying to get ahold of me. Guess I've been busy."

If Hancock had eyebrows, one of them would've been arched at the master spy. Instead, the ghoul settled back into his centuries-old couch, the springs moaning beneath him, his beady black eyes never once straying from Deacon's face. "Is that the word on the street? 'Cause _I_ heard that you've been turning my couriers back before they could even deliver you a message. Or were they lying?" Hancock smiled his trademark wicked smile. "Guess I'll just have to kill one of them to find out." He turned to his second in command. "Fahrenheit, sweetheart? Would you mind getting Ron up here?"

Ugh, Deacon hated it when someone actually called him on his bullshit. He was getting rusty. Rolling his eyes, he held up a hand. "Fine, I might've heard _something_ about a request, but hey, like I said. Been busy."

Hancock's grin widened. He waved off Fahrenheit. "You can go."

The woman looked put out at being ushered away from a meeting, but left without a word. Deacon would never admit it to anyone, but he was glad for it. He had never trusted that chick.

"Honestly, what kind of name is Fahrenheit?" Deacon wondered aloud, checking to see that the woman had, in fact, closed the door all the way. "I can't figure out what she's trying to accomplish. Patriotism? You know, only Americans used that system, way back when."

Hancock just stared Deacon down like the master spy hadn't even spoken. "So our girl's alive, huh?" Though his tone was conversational, Deacon knew the point of this little chit-chat was anything but. "Gotta admit, I was worried for a while there. No one had seen or heard from her in, what? Seven weeks?"

"But who's counting, right?" Deacon said, sinking back into the couch again, keeping his thumbs from fidgeting the way they wanted to. "Unless you're looking for a drug buddy again, but didn't we talk about that?"

The smile that formed on Hancock's dry lips was unnerving, to say the least. "Actually, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about."

Ugh. "Oh?" Disinterest. Irreverence. Just be Deacon, like everyone would expect.

"Yeah. I wanna cash in on that favor you owe me."

Fuck. Just what the hell did the ghoul want? As if it wasn't enough to deal with the fact that his relic was alive and kicking and totally fucking avoiding him for extremely good reasons, but now this? Jesus, the universe was really conspiring against him this week.

"Hmm," Deacon tapped his chin. "I dunno, by the sound of your voice, it's probably something that's totally not within reason. And you've gotta know how I feel about things like that. I prefer things that are squarely," and he made a square with his hands, "within reason."

"Good, then you'll like this," Hancock said easily, smirking. Deacon loathed the look of triumph in the ghoul's black eyes. "I just want you to do one simple thing."

"That being?"

"Strap on a pair and go see her, Deacon."

His mouth went dry. Had it already been dry? Was the air inside Hancock's little drug den dry? Hmm. Maybe he needed to go see Carrington. Was he getting sick? 'Cause he was feeling nauseous. "Sorry, what?"

"You heard me, Deacon," the ghoul said, displaying a surprising amount of patience for a man who preferred the _shoot first ask questions later_ approach. "You know where she is. So go see her."

"I think we need to clarify who ' _her_ ' is…"

All right, so maybe the mayor didn't have as much patience as Deacon initially thought. "Really? Let me describe her for you, then. About yeigh high, petite, ass and tits like a fucking goddess –"

"Okay, _okay_ ," Deacon spoke up quickly, barely containing his sharp tone. "Jesus, I get it. For the record, I _don't_ know where she is, okay? And like I said…I been busy."

"Too busy to check on your girlfriend? The girlfriend that went on some super secret mission she told me she might not come back from? The girlfriend you're half outta your mind for? You been too busy for that, really?"

Deacon sat upright, on edge. "Firstly, I don't know what century you think this is, but _girlfriend_ is a little outdated, don't you think? Secondly, Charmer… _Nora_ …" Because, yes, that name was his now. He could say that name, goddamnit. "Nora is most _certainly not_ my girlfriend. And finally, yes. I've been a bit too busy for that. Got a secret organization to help run and all."

Leaning forward, so that he was only about a foot away from Deacon now with nothing but the coffee table littered with jet between them, Hancock scowled. "You know what, Deacon, I'm gonna call your bullshit. But to make it easy for you, I'll give you her exact location, as told to me by Preston Garvey himself." Reading the look on Deacon's face properly – which was quite a feat, all things considered – Hancock chuckled darkly to himself. "Yeah, that's right. Garvey's been hanging with your girl this whole time she's been back. How's that make you feel?"

Deacon gritted his teeth together, tried to loosen his tense shoulders. Fucking Boy Scout. "Like I said – "

"Nah, you listen here," Hancock interrupted. "She's back at Sanctuary this week. In her old house. You'll find her there. But if you're a fucking coward and wanna wait till she's on Preston's turf, I heard she'll be at the Castle next week. Now if you were to ask me, one of those locations is _far_ better than the other, but hey, what's an old ghoul's preferences, anyway?" Then he settled back into his ancient couch, taking a tin of Jet with him. "That's my favor, and you owe me."

Favor or not, Deacon couldn't avoid the prodding by his subconscious much longer. _Sanctuary Hills_. Obviously, he had already known she was there. Had intuited it, at least, since he tried hard not to listen to any of Drummer Boy's reports on her movements. And it was only a day's walk away…

Fuck.

000

Deacon hadn't been to Sanctuary Hills since he'd first watched Charmer amble down from the vault, freshly coated in cryo-juice, seeing this new world for the very first time. After seeing her fall to pieces in her old home with only a rusty robot to comfort her, he had known something about the woman who had been a stranger to him at the time: Sanctuary Hills was off limits. It was a place that belonged to her and only to her, a place he could not under any circumstances trespass onto. It was the last place she had seen her family alive, after all. And he knew a thing or two about that.

He was breaking the rule he had set for himself, and he had so few rules that the idea of violating one of them was a little disturbing. But extenuating circumstances and all, right? Didn't this count as a very, very good reason to break any rule at all?

Even from the Red Rocket truck station, about a five-minute walk away from the bridge that led into the little suburbia, Deacon could tell that Sanctuary Hills had been transformed since Charmer had risen from the vault. Three windmills stood, rickety but strong, over the settlement, their blades churning lazily in the mid-afternoon breeze. There was a massive radio beacon set up close to the entrance of the settlement, and beyond that, a slew of houses that had been constructed from the Wasteland's ruins.

It was impressive, to say the least. That his – that Charmer – could build something from nothing. Months ago, this place had been a ghost town, and now… Now there were upwards of six dozen people milling about, working on the little farm that had been established, hauling water in from the purifier down near the irradiated river.

Deacon was glad that he had worn his _I'm just a simple Commonwealth farmer_ getup that day, blending in easily with the trading caravan that was moving in. His stomach was coiled so tightly into knots that he wondered if they would ever get untangled, and having any extra pairs of eyes on him would just throw him over the edge he was carefully balancing himself against.

He wanted to run away. Turn back to the safety of HQ and dead-drops and missions and people he only knew by codenames and the number of synths they had saved. For just a second, he didn't want this – this thing between him and Charmer, these butterflies in his chest, this pain, this need to see her and hold her and tell her everything she ever wanted to know about him. For just a moment. But it passed as quickly as it came, and he knew, without a doubt, that he _needed_ it. Regardless if he wanted it or not. He fucking needed it.

His sunglass-covered eyes scanned every face he passed, looking for the only one that mattered. Would she look different? Older? Younger, since she would've been able to get all that grit and grime off herself? Had she been wounded? Would she sound the same?

When he locked eyes with Piper, of all people, he stopped dead in his tracks. The reporter mimicked his movements, squinting her eyes at him, shading herself from the sun, before she put two and two together and asked, tentatively, "Deacon?"

"Y'know, I'm technically in disguise right now," he pointed out, irritated that someone had seen through him so easily.

Piper cocked her head, a deep frown marring her lips. "Yeah, but she said you'd come looking like that."

She? Charmer?

God, that woman knew him too well.

"Well, any idea where 'she' is?" he asked, wanting to cut right to the chase. If his voice trembled a little bit, Piper mercifully pretended to not notice.

The raven-haired reporter nodded towards the sprawling farm, half of it obscured by a house. "She was talking to Sturges not long ago about expanding the cow range."

"The cow range," Deacon repeated, having a hard time imagining his Charmer talking about something so pedestrian. "Right." Then he just stared off in the general area that Piper had nodded at, his feet planted firmly where he was.

"You can wait there all day," Piper said, just a little bit sympathetic, "but it's gonna be shitty, either way."

The reporter's words only cemented the block of anxiety in Deacon's belly. So Charmer was pissed at him enough for other people to know?

Maybe he _should_ just leave.

"And don't even think about turning tail," Piper advised. "Putting off the inevitable is only gonna make things worse."

True. Deacon nodded at Piper, signaling that the woman should be on her way, now. He couldn't prepare himself for this under her scrutinizing eyes. And he needed to be ready. Because he had known, he had always known, that he was gonna lose Charmer. But now, he had to own up to it.

When he finally managed to force his feet to move, his pace was slow, almost lazy. He wasn't in any rush to meet his fate. But when he saw a dark head of hair, a lithe and petite body crouched on the ground next to Sturges, his heart jumped in his chest and his feet moved a little faster. God, there she was, fucking beautiful as ever. He'd been right – with all the dirt washed off of her, or at least fairly recently washed off of her, she looked younger. More her age. A twenty-something year old who should never have had to deal with all this shit.

Who shouldn't have to deal with a fraud like him, either.

He stopped, about ten feet away from her, completely reverent of her presence. Glory had been right – he needed to see things to believe it, and now that he was seeing Charmer, in the flesh, his heart was doing this whole thing where it skipped a beat every so often because _he was so fucking relieved_ that she was alive. She was okay. The Big Bad Institute hadn't ruined her. Not yet, at least.

After about a minute of his staring, Charmer seemed to sense eyes on her and glanced up. Her green eyes were piercing and terrifying; they betrayed no emotion, showed no surprise, which worried him even more. She didn't even look marginally happy to see him. He couldn't read _anything_ off her.

Was that what it was like to look at him? Did it ever fill her with the same doubt he now felt?

Sturges, hovering over Charmer's shoulder as they looked at what seemed to be blueprints in her hand, looked up too, his face visibly paling when he realized that it was Deacon standing in front of them. How the man _knew_ it was Deacon, he had no idea, unless it had something to do with Piper recognizing him, too. But still. It was a little unnerving to be _recognized_.

"Why don't I catch up with you later?" Sturges offered to her, taking his eyes off Deacon in order to read Charmer's reaction to his presence. When the mechanic saw nothing but a void stare, he paled further. "Yeah, I'll catch up with you later." And the man high-tailed it outta there like there was no tomorrow.

Deacon couldn't blame him. You could cut the tension in the air with a fucking knife.

Standing from her crouch, Charmer still didn't say anything. She just continued to stare, impassive, unreadable, terrifying.

Deacon held his hands out as if to say _surprised?_ and tried going for a more lighthearted approach to ease the tension. "What, couldn't stop by HQ to let your biggest fans know you were up and kickin'?"

Charmer finally did _something_. She frowned. So deeply that he worried it would never come off her face. "Follow me," she said tersely, brushing past him with a stiff shoulder, not bothering to glance back to see if he was indeed following.

Of course he would. If she said _jump_ right now, he would ask _how fucking high?_ He would do anything.

He trailed behind her until they reached her house, which was oddly untouched and unmodified, unlike the houses that were surrounding it. Charmer was stiff, standing too-straight, and opened the front door with so much force that the handle nearly flew off. She left it open and marched inside, letting Deacon follow and close it behind them.

The silence that grew was nerve wracking. His mind and his body couldn't synchronize properly – his body just wanted to throw itself at the woman, to gather her up in his arms and never let go, pepper her with kisses and make love to her and tell her that he lov- that he cared about her so much. But his mind kept asking: how's she gonna do it? Swift? Merciful? Or long and drawn out? He felt like a dead man walking.

Her back was still to him, her hands planted on the old worn marble of her kitchen island countertop. She had gotten a haircut again, but this time a good one. The ends of her hair had been clipped perfectly, not jagged and mismatched. The Institute probably had a damn good barber.

He stood stock-still, holding his breath. When she finally turned around to face him, her expression was schooled into a cold mask.

"Was there something you needed from me, Deacon?" Professional. That's how she wanted to come off. Purely professional. Like they hadn't been glued to the hip for nearly nine months. Like she hadn't offered everything to him, made love to him, looked at him with complete adoration. And he had expected it, of course he did, but it didn't make it sting any less.

Deacon opened his mouth, closed it. Now wasn't the time for witticisms. Now was the time for the truth, unsolicited. He sucked in a deep breath, took the sunglasses off. Watched a small furrow appear between her brows. "I knew what you would find when you got there," he admitted, his voice low, ashamed, bearing the weight of years of self-loathing and hatred.

If it was possible, Charmer stiffened even more. "You knew. Of course you knew. You know everything, don't you?" This sharp, acerbic comment seemed to be to herself, and Deacon looked up at her helplessly. "If you knew, why didn't you tell me? If you knew what he had become? The monster he was? _Is_?"

 _Monster_ … So she hadn't sided with the Father? She wasn't compromised? The thought hadn't even crossed his mind until this moment, because he was too fucking in love with her, too fucking wrapped up in her, but what the other Railroad agents had voiced could have been true – she could have seen her brother, not that they would've known she and the Father were family, and turned on the Railroad. Turned on all of them.

"I…" Deacon started, stopped. God, it was so hard, telling only the truth. Being real. "Honestly, I wasn't sure… that you would see him that way. I wasn't sure…"

"What? You weren't sure where my loyalty was?" She laughed, but it was bitter, harsh. "Did I not show you enough? Did I not deserve the truth from you?" She shoved away from the counter, approached him with sharp, purposeful strides until she stood a mere foot away. "What made you think any of that was okay, Deacon? You…" her voice broke, but her hard gaze held steady. His Charmer, she didn't cry. "You betrayed me."

She was right. There was no talking his way out of this one. There was no lie to tell that would make things better. The truth was: he had betrayed her. Had lied to her, in the way that mattered, from the very start. He could have told her who her brother was: that he was the Father, the puppet-master behind the boogeymen of the Institute. He could have told her he had once been part of that fucked up organization, that he had scoped out possible targets for them, people to take and test and replace. He could have told her all of it. Or maybe he couldn't have. Maybe this was just who he was.

"Nora…" he said, and God, it didn't feel as good to say it this time, because maybe this was the last time he would ever get to call her it to her face. "Nora… I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry." Tears had formed in his eyes; when, he wasn't sure, but they were there. He wasn't as tough as her, his Charmer, his Nora. They slipped down his cheeks, gathered at his chin. Charmer watched them, her eyes softening but her glare still present, her hard façade breaking.

"Get out," she whispered, looking away from him. Anywhere but at him. "Get out. Now."

And he couldn't stand to see the disgust on her face, the hatred, the loathing. So he did exactly as she said. He ran, as far as his lungs would permit him, before he collapsed to the ground, and for the first time since Barbara had been slaughtered, he cried.

000

Days passed in a haze for Deacon. One day bleeding into the next, day or night being an uncertain and unimportant detail. He was reeling, numb, too much and too little all at once. Hardly able to process his heartbreak, because he had been the one to perfectly construct it. Other agents stayed out of his way entirely. Glory knew better than to speak to him. Des had benched him for desk duty, too worried for his safety and for others to have him out in the field. No one asked questions. He was sure his face gave away how bad of an idea that would be.

Then he heard her voice, four days after she had told him to leave Sanctuary Hills. He thought he had started hallucinating from one too many sleepless nights, but he saw Glory perk up immediately, shove to her feet from where she'd been eating noodles with Tom, and full-out sprint over to Charmer, who had just walked in through the crypt's front entrance.

"Oh my _God_ ," Glory said, throwing her arms around the other heavy. "Don't do that. _Don't do that. Ever again_ , do you understand me?" She hugged Charmer tightly, so tightly that anyone with a pair of eyes could see the relic's breath leave her lungs, but Charmer seemed resigned to this punishment.

The smile on her pretty lips was real when Glory finally pulled away. "I'm sorry," Charmer said, a bit sheepish. "I just… needed some time."

Drummer Boy must've run to tell the Alpha that their star agent had returned, in the flesh, because Desdemona was the next person to approach Charmer, relief and glee and hunger in her eyes. "Charmer," she greeted, imbuing her tone with as much warmth as Deacon had ever heard in it. "I think we have some things to discuss."

Charmer nodded and followed Des back into her office. It seemed like everyone in the crypt held a collective breath as she passed by Deacon, obviously expecting some sort of sappy and romantic reunion. But when she didn't even glance at the master spy and marched on past him like he didn't even exist, he felt eyes on him. Curious, questioning.

And he couldn't stand the stares. So he walked off, barking at Drummer to take the dead-drops out early if only to just say _something_ , and slipped out the back entrance to get some air.

000

"I warned you not to fuck this up, Deacon," Glory said, watching as the master spy took a long drag of a cigarette and blew the smoke out his mouth slowly, leaning against the massive thick metal pipe that led back into the crypt. He could feel Glory's eyes burn into him, but still, he wouldn't look at her. "I _told_ you. But it looks like you fucked it up colossally."

"Good talk," Deacon cut her off, his tone deadly low. "But maybe let's do it another time, yeah?"

"No," Glory said, stepping into his face. She just blinked as he blew smoke into her eyes, anything to get her away from him. To be alone. "No, we're doing this now. I _told you_ not to fuck it up Deacon. But you did. You didn't tell her, did you?"

He froze, every bone in his body suddenly feeling like leaden ice. His blood ran cold. He masked his surprise, his fear, of course, but he could do nothing to keep the terror from swimming around in his belly. "Tell her about my tickling fetish? Yeah, you're right. Forgot to mention it and, let's just say, made things a little awkward the first time, y'know?"

Glory glared at him, but now that he knew the full weight of Charmer's glare, he knew it wasn't the same. Glory looked like an angry little kitten in comparison. "No. I'm talking about the Institute. About how you used to work for them, way back in the day, and how you know who her brother is, how you know _everything_ , even though you pretend and you lie and you think none of the rest of us know. You didn't tell her about it. And I fucking warned you. _Not_. To mess. It up. You should have told her."

He was full-on gaping at Glory, now. Holy mother of fuck. Glory knew? About the Institute? About what he, Deacon, used to do for them?

How in the fuck?

"Glory…?"

"Yeah, that's right," she bit out at him, satisfied at seeing him speechless for the first time. "I know. I've known this whole time. Guess they fucked up when they programmed my memory to get wiped if I ever escaped. I remember reading about you. Seeing your file. Watching the monitors as the Watchers kept track of you, before you looked like…" she gestured at his face, "This. I remember you, Deacon, when you weren't even Deacon. When you were just some farmhand who didn't know about the shitstorm he was getting himself into."

Jesus _fuck_. This whole time? Ten years – that's how long he had known Glory for. How long she'd been with them, since she escaped. For ten years she had known and hadn't said anything to him?

"Does – "

"No," Glory cut him off. "Des doesn't know. No one else does. As far as I was concerned, you were trying to redeem yourself. I know a little something about that. But we're not talking about that right now. We're talking about Charmer. You fucked it up big time, Deacon, and you need to fix it."

"I – "fuck, he couldn't think straight. "Glory… I don't know how to."

"You need to figure it out."

* * *

 **A/N:** Ta-da! Another chapter! The next one is much harder to write, sadly, but I'm working on it. Please let me know what you think!


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